


I rose from marsh mud

by cassiopeia721



Series: author's favorites [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blackmail, Dark Academia, Dark Magic, Divination, Gen, Herbology, Hogwarts Inter-House Friendships, Hogwarts Inter-House Rivalries, Internalized Magical Racism, LGBTQ Themes, Magical Racism, Moral Ambiguity, Muggleborn Slytherin, Murder, Occlumency, Sapphic, Schoolroom Politics, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Spoilers, Spoilers later on in tags, Spying & Espionage, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 36,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22181836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassiopeia721/pseuds/cassiopeia721
Summary: Anyone can tell you that there aren’t muggleborns in Slytherin. There may be a handful of particularly vicious halfbloods, but there aren’t any muggleborns. No one can say precisely how they know there aren’t muggleborns in Slytherin, but they know that there aren’t. It’s just how things work.“Tracey Davis,” Tracey introduces herself.Daphne Greengrass lifts one snowy eyebrow. “Davis? Do you mean Davies?”If there were any muggleborns in Slytherin, they would be playing a very dangerous game.(In which Tracey Davis accidentally tricks nearly everyone into thinking she’s a pureblood, befriends the Bloody Baron, and slowly climbs to greatness.)
Relationships: Tracey Davis & Wayne Hopkins & Mandy Brocklehurst
Series: author's favorites [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2069328
Comments: 108
Kudos: 358
Collections: 5 Star HP Works, Badassness





	1. April 7th 1980- August 31st 1991

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plumcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumcat/gifts).



> Eternal and endless thanks to my fantastic beta Quinntessentially.

_I rose from marsh mud,  
algae, equisetum, willows,  
sweet green, noisy  
birds and frogs_

– Lorine Niedecker, “I rose from marsh mud”

* * *

**1\. April 7th 1980- August 31st 1991**

Sunlit drops tap their questing fingers against the window as Tracey Davis slips into the world. Tracey’s father presses a kiss to her tiny, wrinkled forehead, murmuring something about it being a magical day. He doesn’t know how right he is.

Those first years are blurs of sunlight and picnics, lullabies and stories. Then her father is buried deep in the loamy earth he loved so well, and Tracey’s mother is swept away in endless court cases, and, somehow, Tracey finds herself all alone at an academy.

Tracey doesn’t like the academy. She doesn’t like numbers or letters or anything else they try to teach her. More than that, she doesn’t like the adults—mostly because they don’t seem to like her. They tell her how she eats and dresses and sits isn’t ladylike. She’s supposed to do all sorts of silly things, like make her bed a specific way and always make sure her socks are pulled up. The other girls listen, but Tracey doesn’t. 

Tracey wanders the grounds a lot, only ever stopping when she reaches the rusted fence with its iron points. One particularly boring day, she decides she wants to explore the little rambling wood on the other side. The spaces between the iron bars of the fence look really small, but when Tracey tries to fit through them, the spaces are bigger than she thought and she easily slips through. 

Tracey spends the day wandering the forest. She scrapes her knee climbing a tree, but it’s okay because she finds a bird’s nest way up in the branches of the tree and the chicks perch in her hair and on her shoulders, making little noises as they rub their fuzzy bodies up against her cheeks. She holds one in her hands and can feel the steady pounding of life against her interlocked fingers. 

Night comes, and it’s cold out, but Tracey doesn’t want to leave the baby birds, and she’s not sure how to climb down, anyhow. She curls up into a little ball and goes to sleep, high in the branches of the tree. 

She’s woken the next morning by the groundskeeper poking her with the basket at the end of his fruit picker pole. Everyone at the academy has been really worried about her, and she’s in a lot of trouble. Tracey would come down, but the chicks have woken up, and they’re crying, and can’t you tell they’re hungry?

The adults tell her that probably the adult bird won’t want her children anymore because of her, and to come down at once—this _very minute_. Tracey comes down, and she listens to the Headmistress’ lecture, but she visits the baby birds again that afternoon. For a month or so, she spends every moment she can with them. Her roommate knows, but as she’s also Tracey’s best friend, she promises not to tell. 

When Tracey forgets to go back to the Academy one night and sleeps in the tree again, Tracey’s best friend tattles, confessing everything. The Headmistress tries to lecture her, but Tracey won’t have it. 

“You told me their momma would abandon them, and they would die!” Tracey argues. “I can’t let them die!” 

The Headmistress looks incredulous. The next morning, Tracey is told to pack her things, her mother is here to pick her up. 

At the next school, Tracey doesn’t make friends. She doesn’t intend to break rules, but she will if the rules are stupid, and she can’t have someone tattling on her. For a while, she manages to go to a decent number of her classes, and makes her bed about a third of the time, and even sometimes remembers to pull up her socks. But when she sees a young squirrel with a limp, she knows she needs to help him. She coaxes him into her book bag and carries him inside. 

Annie, the little know-it-all, realizes she has a squirrel, and says she’ll tattle unless she can pet him. Tracey lets her. Since Annie knows everything, she must know how to pet a squirrel properly. Annie obviously doesn’t, because she yanks the squirrel’s tail as hard as she can. It’s her own fault, really, when the squirrel bites her square on the knuckle. 

Annie’s mother is on the school board, so Tracey is gone before she can even start to explain how completely unfair it is. 

By this point it’s basically the summer, so her mother decides to enroll her into her next school that fall. Tracey spends the summer wandering around their garden, mixing mashed fallen flowers and grass clippings into the dew collected from rose petals, and talking to the neighborhood plants. Summer ends all too quickly, and it’s time for school again. 

Tracey tries to behave, she really does. It’s just so _boring_ , especially since Tracey doesn’t have any friends. She ends up eating all of her lunches in an abandoned girl’s bathroom. It’s so dull and dreary in there that Tracey decides she should fix that—even though she knows that she’ll probably get in trouble for it. 

Tracey takes some of the grayish-yellow water lilies from the old pond on the grounds, and carefully sneaks them into the bathroom and puts them in the sinks and toilets. Tracey wants them to grow well, so she tells them stories and sings them to sleep and just as she expects, they grow magnificently. The pads’ color deepens to a healthy emerald green and the fluffy flowers bloom as large as dinner plates. She sneaks in frogs and dragonflies and even a koi fish who swims through the pipes, popping up in one of the sinks or toilets whenever he wants to say hello. For months, it’s a perfect paradise.

That is, until the koi fish swims through the pipes and somehow ends up spurting out into the Headmaster’s bath. 

“I don’t understand,” Tracey’s mother says, looking tired. Her lips are still painted red; she’s fresh out of the courtroom. “I know why you rescued the squirrel, and why you helped the baby birds, but why this? The koi fish was perfectly fine where he was.” 

“I was bored,” Tracey says. 

“Tracey,” Tracey’s mother sighs, shaking her head. “You’re seven years old—you’re a big girl now. You can’t misbehave just because you’re bored. Do you know how much it’s going to cost me to replace that bathroom? I don’t even know how you made the bathroom like that, let alone how anyone is expected to fix it. It’s a very good thing it’s nearly summer now, because there is no way I will be able to find you a new school with a track record like _that_. Next time, if you’re bored, why don’t you– read, or play a sport, or some other _productive_ activity? Or spend time with your friends?” 

“Friends tattle,” Tracey grumbles, staring out the window.

“If you didn’t behave so naughtily, your friends would have nothing to tattle about!” Tracey’s mother cries in exasperation. 

They drive in silence for a while, Tracey pouting and Tracey’s mother frowning, and then Tracey’s mother says, “What if you began some tutoring? Tutoring in something you enjoyed—perhaps music lessons, or some such thing like that. Or maybe if you spent more time reading… there are books with stories like the ones I used to tell you, you know.” 

Tracey is silent for a long moment. 

“Tracey…” Tracey’s mother says warningly. 

“That sounds okay, I guess,” Tracey says at last. 

“Don’t use slang,” Tracey’s mother corrects automatically, but her lips are curved up in a slight smile. 

Tracey is determined not to enjoy anything her mother wants her to enjoy, but she finds that she doesn’t exactly hate reading. It isn’t as good as _doing_ , but it’s not so bad after all. There are books about nature, which are sort of as good as _being_ in nature, and there are storybooks, which are almost as good as hearing a story, and a great many other types of books besides. 

Tracey especially likes reading fantasy. She reads about swords in stones, about fairy godmothers and the gods all up on a mountain. She reads about greatness—great knights, great magic, great adventures. And slowly, reluctantly, with the sneaking suspicion that this is playing into her mother’s hands, Tracey begins to wish to be great, too.

She starts to apply herself properly to learning. Her mother lets her test out all sorts of tutors. Throughout the summer so far, Tracey has had brief stints taking badminton lessons (her badminton rackets kept on getting mysteriously tangled), painting lessons (paint somehow ended up all over the ceiling), and piano lessons (no matter how carefully their piano was tuned, by the next lesson, it was wildly out of tune again). 

Right now, she has taking been taking French lessons. With her newfound wish to be great, Tracey pays a bit more attention to her lessons. She stops purposefully mispronouncing everything, and listens more attentively to her tutor. Learning French is boring and the foreign language feels strange in her mouth. But her mother says she is proud of her, which makes Tracey’s chest feel oddly warm and light. 

“I suppose we’ve finally found a subject that you enjoy,” Tracey’s mother says wryly, spearing a piece of watercress with the tines of her fork. 

“Actually,” Tracey says hesitantly, “I thought of something else I’d like to try.” 

“Oh?” Tracey’s mother asks. 

“Dancing,” Tracey suggests, thinking of the wood nymphs in one of the books she read.

Tracey’s mother raises an eyebrow, but her lips are tilted upwards at the corners. “We’ll see.” 

Tracey keeps on taking French lessons, but they’re less frequent now, and she gets to take ballet lessons too. Tracey much prefers ballet to French for in ballet you can move around instead of just sitting there and talking.

At the end of the summer, Tracey’s mother tells her that if her grades are too low, or she gets in trouble, her tutoring will get cut, because she can’t have it distracting her. Tracey agrees to try and behave. 

Tracey knows that “behaving” means acting like the other students. She forces herself to make her bed every morning, and make sure her socks are always pulled up, but she can tell the adults still don’t like her much. 

Tracey needs to know more about how the others behave. She goes about learning how the other students act the same way she might learn about one of the birds in the garden—lots and lots of careful observation. Tracey watches everything they do, from how they smile and laugh to their posture to how they use their dining utensils. She learns to carefully mimic them, the same way her dance tutor taught her to mimic different dance moves.

Still, the other girls don’t like Tracey very much. They laugh and sneer, and won’t let her eat with them. Tracey has to keep careful track of her things because they steal her books and shoes. Asking them to stop only seems to make them even more cruel. One night towards the end of the school year, they replace her shampoo with toilet water. Tracey’s mother somehow finds out, and she arrives only a day or two later to withdraw Tracey from the school, as well as chew out the teachers. 

It’s during that following summer, in between ballet lessons and French lessons and time spent out in the garden among the sun and dirt, that she realizes what the problem was. Tracey behaved like them, but she didn’t talk like them, didn’t socialize like them, didn’t make jokes like them. 

Tracey ends up going to St. Gummarus Preparatory School next. It’s a Catholic school, and Tracey notices they act differently than the girls at her old school. Tracey learns to talk like they do, and make the kind of jokes they do. She still doesn’t want to make friends, but she’s learned being entirely alone is dangerous, too. She strikes a careful balance, just friendly enough that they tolerate her, but not so friendly that any of them try to befriend her. Sometimes she prays soft, rhyming prayers that she can pass unnoticed and unremarked upon. It seems to work, because mostly the other girls forget about her, leaving her in peace. 

At St. Gummarus, they take Latin classes and religion classes in addition to all the usual stuff, and so since Tracey is learning Latin now, she stops taking French lessons. However, she keeps on with the ballet lessons and spends most of her free time either out in St. Gummarus’ grounds, or, if the weather is so bad that’s not possible, inside reading fantasy books. 

Sometimes Tracey likes to experiment with mixing together different bits of plants and things, playacting that together they’ll make something new and magical. She knows it’s immature, so she’s careful that no one finds out, not even her mother.

It’s the summer after her third year at St. Gummarus when she gets the strangest letter. It comes on thick parchment paper, and it’s got a detailed address written in emerald green cursive. Tracey carefully opens it up, and is shocked and delighted to read about a school for wizards and witches, called Hogwarts.

Tracey’s mother is less delighted. She’s seen enough of Tracey’s strange incidents to be surprisingly unskeptical about the existence of magic, but she’s rather dubious of the possible careers a school for wizards and witches can lead to.

“And what about your ballet?” She asks Tracey. Tracey resists the urge to roll her eyes, instead sighing through her nose. As if Tracey cares about _dancing_ more than _magic_. 

Tracey writes a careful letter back using her fanciest fountain pen and her best stationery. Her mother seems confused as to how they are expected to entice an owl to carry the letter, but practically the moment Tracey has finished tucking her letter into its envelope, a gorgeous horned owl swoops in the open window and flies off with it. 

A week later they are having tea with the stern Professor McGonagall. Her hair is shot through with gray, but her eyes are clear and sharp. Tracey listens with eager delight as Professor McGonagall slowly but steadily erodes her mother’s objections.

“And how is Tracey meant to buy all of these strange school supplies?” Tracey’s mother asks in a last ditch effort. 

Professor McGonagall’s eyes sparkle with triumph as she replies, “I will be able to escort you both to Diagon Alley.” 

The entrance to Diagon Alley is tucked in the heart of London. Between a tall and skinny vinyl shop and a squat little second-hand shop there is a rundown pub with a hanging sign in the shape of a cauldron. Professor McGonagall walks them briskly through, hardly giving Tracey time to take in the strange figures drinking steaming brews around the grimy pub. 

Inside Diagon Alley itself, Tracey’s head swivels round and round and round as she stares at everything. Her eyes catch on a map shop selling globes of the moon, and others of the stars, globes of the earth that show where to find rare plants or places Tracey has only heard of in her books. Without thinking, Tracey’s feet turn towards it—until Professor McGonagall rather forcibly sets her back on track. 

The first place they stop at is Gringotts. Tracey struggles not to gape at the guards with their battleaxes and the clerks at their desks with their dragon’s hoard worth of green-gold coins and oddly shaped gems that they are inspecting. 

Tracey’s mother, on the other hand, does not gape. Her back has straightened into the iron rod posture she adopts in court, and her eyes are cool and sharp as they sweep over the room, analyzing everything. With crisp politeness, she asks about creating a vault, and what sorts of investments are available. The clerk’s eyes gleam. Tracey and Professor McGonagall slip away, leaving them to their negotiations. 

Their next stop is Flourish and Blotts, a shop filled with rambling stacks of books of all sizes and widths and makes. Tracey quickly loses herself in the cluster of towering stacks about wizarding flora and fauna, skimming through books on magical climate and magical trees and magical flowers and the influence of the stars on the growth and magic of plants. By the time Tracey’s bought her books, they’re rather behind schedule. To catch them back up, Professor McGonagall leaves her in Madam Malkin’s capable hands while she goes to buy some of the other supplies.

Madam Malkin has just begun measuring Tracey when another young witch joins her. She looks like an elf right out of Lord of the Rings, with bottle green eyes set in a heart-shaped face. Both her hair and skin are milky colored, so pale they almost have a bluish tint to them. 

“Daphne Greengrass,” she introduces herself. “I suppose you’re getting measured for Hogwarts robes as well?” 

“Yes. Tracey Davis,” Tracey replies. She wishes she could think of something else to add. 

Daphne Greengrass lifts one snowy eyebrow. “Davis? Do you mean Davies?” It’s obvious she would prefer if it were Davies. 

“It’s a rather long story,” Tracey blurts out. There’s an awkward, confused silence. In her mind, Tracey chants her rhyming prayer about forgetting and not noticing and believing that Tracey Davis is perfectly normal. 

“Oh,” Greengrass says at last, her eyebrows still wrinkled slightly in confusion. After another long moment where the only sound is the swish of fabric, she asks, “Where are your parents?” 

“Discussing investments in Gringotts,” Tracey answers honestly, still chanting the rhyming prayer in her mind. This seems to be the right answer, because Greengrass’ eyebrows relax. 

“Oh. My mother’s here in Diagon with me—I think she’s in the apothecary at the moment—but my father’s off in France for work. He promised he would come, but there was an issue in one of our greenhouses on the continent, and it really couldn’t wait. Which I understand, but still.” She brightens slightly. “He did promise me that he’d make it up to me, though, which means he’s probably going to bring back something lovely. Last time,” she confides, “He brought me back this really rare flower.” 

“Oh?” Tracey asks with genuine interest. 

“Yes,” Greengrass replies dreamily. “A phoenix bloom. They’re very rare, but they live for ages, and are terribly beautiful. Like sunset and sunrise all bound up together in a flower. And they taste absolutely delicious…”

Seeing Tracey’s stricken look, she reassures her. “Oh, the blossoms grow back very quickly—that’s part of the reason they’re called phoenix blooms, you see.” 

“That’s you done, dear,” Madam Malkin says, patting Tracey’s leg. Tracey hops down. Hopefully, she asks, “See you at Hogwarts, Greengrass?”

“I’d like that,” Greengrass smiles. “And please, call me Daphne.” 

“Call me Tracey, then,” Tracey replies with an answering smile. 

Tracey’s mother still isn’t done with her negotiations at Gringotts, so Tracey and Professor McGonagall head back to Flourish and Blotts. This time, Tracey doesn’t allow her passion to overcome her sense of reason. It’s now more important than ever that Tracey fit in. If she messes up and gets expelled from Hogwarts, she’ll have no other chances. But if she does this properly—her thoughts skip to some of her favorite fantasy books, and she feels her heart pound faster with excitement. 

She asks Professor McGonagall what wizarding things someone new is most likely to misunderstand, and then finds books on those. By the time Tracey’s mother shows up, Tracey’s fairly wobbling under a tower of instructional manuals on writing with a quill pen, summaries of wizarding history, and explanations of wizarding culture. 

It’s only as they finish buying the books that they realize they’ve forgotten the most important thing of all: Tracey’s wand!

It takes a long time for Tracey to get a wand. Mr. Ollivander hands her wand after wand for what feels like ages. It takes long enough that Tracey starts to wonder if the entire thing was a mistake after all. Her thoughts must be showing on her face, because Professor McGonagall gives her shoulder a bracing squeeze.

“Let’s try this one!” comes Mr. Ollivander’s reedy voice. “Seven and seven eighths inches, acacia and unicorn hair, quite pliant.” 

Tracey gives the wand a cautious wave, and is surprised when her hand heats up.

“Lovely!” Mr. Ollivander cheers, clapping. “Would you like a wand holster with that?” 

Tracey lets out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She belongs here. She _does_.

Over the summer, instead of taking ballet lessons like usual, Tracey pores over her books. She learns about magical holidays and magical history; she reads all about potions and magical plants. She writes lines and lines using her quill, and polishes her wand every day without fail. By September 1st, Tracey is as ready as she’ll ever be.


	2. September 1st 1991–September 6th 1991

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tracey begins her new life at Hogwarts.

“You’re certain you have everything?” Tracey’s mother asks. 

“Yes, Mother,” Tracey says, managing to keep most of the grumble out of her voice. 

“I know that you’re entering an entirely new world, but I think some things are the same. Things like the value of good manners, and cleverness, and listening to your mother.” Tracey’s mother presses a kiss to Tracey’s forehead. “You have the potential to do amazing things, my darling.” 

Tracey feels a bit bad for her irritability. She gives her mother a reassuring smile, trying to convey that she’s not going to mess this up. 

“I suppose there’s nothing for it,” Tracey’s mother says with a sigh, and lets Tracey go. 

Since Tracey is more than a full hour early, there are only a few people on the platform. Next to their gorgeous, jewel-toned robes, Tracey’s muggle clothing looks shabby, so she hurries onto the train to change instead of lingering to look around. 

Tracey finds a carriage not too close to the front but also not at the very back. Once there, she fiddles around with the carriage door until she finds a little knob that locks the door. Then, she shimmies out of her skirt and kicks off her loafers. She replaces her tights and underwear with a white linen shift. Her fingers fumble with the endless buttons of her robe, but once it’s on, Tracey can’t help smiling slightly when she sees how the cloth hangs crisply around her. Although the girls at St. Gummarus would think it old-fashioned and dull, something about wizarding clothing makes her feel powerful. She puts her muggle clothing into her trunk, feeling as though she is putting away her old, boring self as she does.

Now that Tracey has changed, she unlocks the door and tries to settle in. Her mind wanders as she skims through one of her books on magical plants while she waits. She hopes Daphne finds and joins her. 

The train has finally started to move when the carriage doors slide open, revealing a tangle of dark curls. It takes Tracey a moment to register that there is a person attached to the hair—a gangly olive-toned girl with a few large, dark freckles spattered on her face like stray paint droplets, or a constellation. 

“Mind if I join you?” the girl asks. 

Tracey nods. The girl steps in. She looks like a baby deer, all elbows and knees; Tracey is half surprised her skinny body can support the weight of her mass of curls. 

Compared to Tracey’s casual robes from Madam Malkin’s, the girl’s outfit looks totally muggle. Her wand, which is of a wood so dark it looks black, is stuck into one of the loops of her jeans. Several butterfly clips are perched in her hair in a futile attempt to contain her curls.

“Miranda Brocklehurst, by the way,” she says cheerily, sticking out a hand. Tracey shakes it.

“Tracey Davis,” Tracey says, running through the notice-me-not prayer a couple of times in her head.

“Nice to meet you,” Miranda says, giving Tracey’s hand a quick up-down before dropping it and moving to shove her suitcase into the overhead. “I’m so excited to go to Hogwarts! My parents are muggle, so I never knew about any of this until really recently. Did you? Do you know what Hogwarts is like?” 

Tracey shakes her head. “ I tried to learn all I could, but my parents aren’t magical, either.” 

“I wonder,” Miranda says slowly, “What all is real?” 

Tracey quirks an eyebrow, confused.

“I mean, wizards and witches and goblins are real,” Miranda counts off. “But are vampires? Zombies? Ghosts?”

“Nymphs?” Tracey suggests, catching on.

“Exactly!” Miranda grins. 

After that, the train ride passes in easy chatter. 

At the end of the ride, Tracey starts pushing through the crowd, headed towards Daphne. It’s only right as she reaches her that she realizes her book on magical plants is gone—and she suddenly remembers that Miranda had borrowed it to skim a chapter on gillyweed, and never given it back—in fact, now that she thinks about it, she saw Miranda slip it into her trunk.

She shakes the thought away. Yes, it’s unpleasant that a potential friend turned out to be a thief, but that just reminds her not to trust so-called “friends.” Or anyone—she has bigger things to worry about. Like learning the name of the girl Daphne is introducing her to.

“This is Tracey Davis,” Daphne introduces her. “Tracey, this is Lily Moon.” Lily Moon is a petite girl with thin, wavy hair a few shades more yellow than Daphne’s. Combined with her blue eyes and button nose, it makes her look like a porcelain doll.

Lily Moon nods, shaking her hand. Her fingers are soft and cool, with perfectly manicured nails. “Please, call me Lily,” she says.

“Only if you call me Tracey,” Tracey replies.

“D’you think I could join this boat?” a quiet, reedy voice asks. Tracey turns and sees it’s attached to a small, skinny boy with a rather rabbity face. 

“This is Theodore Nott,” Daphne says, “And Theo, this is Tracey.” 

Nott simply nods without shaking Tracey’s hand. “So, can I join your boat?” 

Daphne sighs. “Yes, you may.” 

On the boat ride over, the girls exchange small talk and compliments while Nott silently watches the dark water. 

The wait before Tracey gets sorted is all too short. She barely notices who goes where; the only person who stands out to her is that thief Brocklehurst, who gets sent to Ravenclaw. 

Suddenly, Professor McGonagall calls, “Davis, Tracey,” and then Tracey is trembling on the stool in the dark of the hat. 

_Hmm…_ A voice muses. _A good mind, and a willingness to learn… in possession of a good bit of subtlety and cunning, I see— what’s this?_ and here the hat chuckles, _A healthy desire to prove yourself, and the resourcefulness to back it up… Slytherin could help you to become something_ great _\- oh dear._ The hat’s tone changes, seeming almost regretful, _Well, I suppose you are willing to learn, even if it is for the sake of power rather than for knowledge’s sake… Hufflepuff and Gryffindor wouldn’t suit you in the least, so I suppose it had better be—_

 _I want to go to Slytherin,_ Tracey thinks firmly. 

The hat chuckles again. _Well, I see you are resilient… I must warn you, however, Slytherin will be a difficult path…_

 _I can do it,_ Tracey thinks stubbornly. Who’s this raggedy old hat to tell her what she can and can’t do?

The hat hums, pleased. _You can be certain, young Tracey Davis, that Hogwarts will always help her students. I see you’re certainly eager to head to—_ “SLYTHERIN!” the hat’s voice booms out into the Hall. 

Tracey heads to the clapping Slytherin table. Some of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs are clapping too, but the Gryffindors are stony-faced and impassive—two redheaded boys are even booing. Plus, no one Tracey knows has been sorted yet, and she has no idea where to sit. Luckily, an older boy gestures to a seat near him. 

“Bastards,” He says lowly to Tracey. “Don’t worry. The other houses may hate us, but we protect our own.” He gives her a sharp smile. “Welcome to Slytherin, snakelet.” 

Tracey nods mutely. She’s started up the rhyming prayer in her head again.

The rest of the first year Slytherins trickle in. Tracey observes her new housemates and eats slowly and carefully, trying her best to use impeccable manners. After dinner, the prefects lead them through the rambling, damp dungeon corridors into the common room.

Tracey tries not to gape as she looks around the room. Tapestries are hung along the walls, and an intricate rug covers the stone floor. There are bookshelves of dark wood here and there, packed with leather-bound books. Snakes forged out of gleaming metal feature prominently in the room; they form the candelabra, hold up the mantle, and frame the portraits.

The east side of the common room extends quite a bit into the Black Lake. A thick wall of glass shields the common room from the frigid water of the Lake, and little alcoves containing window seats allow a view into the depths.

Professor Snape gives them an introduction, telling them all about Slytherin’s illustrious history, and then delineating expectations. Tracey pays careful attention, not wanting to get on her head of house’s bad side before the year has even really begun. 

One of the older prefects explains some of the smaller details of living in Slytherin House, like the policy on borrowing books and the requirement that they always wear house slippers so as not to dirty the delicate rugs. At the end, with a sly smile, she notes that the new Slytherins will be able to choose both their own dorm mates and their dorm.

Tracey turns cautiously towards where Daphne and Lily are standing, and is rewarded by an answering smile of agreement from Daphne. 

“We were thinking of trying to get the Lavellan Suite,” Daphne asks quickly. “Are you alright with that?” 

Tracey nods. It’s not like she has any idea what other room to choose.

“You may now claim your dorm,” the prefect announces. Tracey expects a mad dash as everyone rushes to get to their preferred dorm first, but instead the first years move surprisingly sedately. Tracey follows Lily and Daphne to a thick dark wood door, with a silver knocker depicting what looks like a kind of marine rat.

All three girls put their hands on the knocker together and rap it against the door. The marine rat opens its eyes, peers at them warily, then goes back to sleep. The door slowly swings open. 

The dorm is spacious, almost to the point of feeling empty. Each bed has marine rats carved into the frame, making it look like the mattress is being supported by their tiny bodies. Tracey sees her trunk in front of one of the beds and heads over. The small bedside table also has the strange rat-like creatures carved into it. 

Lily and Daphne talk quietly to each other as they get ready for bed, their conversation laden with nuance from their years of childhood friendship. Tracey can already tell that she’ll need to befriend someone else if she wants someone to pair up with for classes. 

She thinks that one of the social groups will likely be around a slim blond boy named Draco Malfoy. She noticed during dinner that he already had some hangers-on: two stocky boys who act like bodyguards, and a short-haired girl who almost certainly has a crush on him. 

The other boy sure to be popular is Blaise Zabini. He has a sharp bone structure and an easy, well-shaped smile. He didn’t talk overly much to any one person in particular, but throughout dinner charmingly insinuated his way into each conversation at least once. By the end of dinner, everyone knew his name, and was on at least friendly terms with him. 

The next morning a prefect leads them to the Great Hall. They trek through the jumble of dungeons, up a staircase with a step you have to jump over, and through a door pretending to be a painting. Once at breakfast, Tracey pays careful attention to the first years around her. 

She notices a plump girl sitting with ramrod straight posture. Besides her ramrod straight posture, she is eating precisely and has an aloof expression on her face. Mostly she talks to a dark-haired boy next to her, though she listens intently when Malfoy speaks. Tracey pays close attention and learns that her name is Honoria Seventhson, and her male friend is named William Pancras. They seem close enough that they’ll surely partner together in classes, so Tracey moves on. 

There is one more girl whose name Tracey doesn’t know. No one speaks to her, and in fact Honoria Seventhson is pointedly facing away from her. 

Her eyes settle on Theodore Nott. His thin, rabbity face is barely visible, as he’s bent over a book. Occasionally he absently shoves a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth, or replies to Malfoy’s attempts to draw him into conversation, but mostly he reads. Tracey nods silently. Perfect.

During their first class, Transfiguration, she casually sits down next to him. He shoots her a wary look, but Tracey ignores it. Unfortunately, Tracey doesn't have an opportunity to talk to him. Professor McGonagall keeps a tight rein on the class, not allowing anyone to so much as whisper to their friends. She also doesn’t give anyone points all class, not when Lily answers a question correctly, nor when Malfoy correctly demonstrates a wand movement, nor even when Tracey manages to transfigure her match pointy and silverish.

“McGonagall is so biased,” Malfoy rants as the prefect leads them to the next class. “If you’d been a Gryffindor, she would have given Davis at least ten points for that! And answering a question correctly, demonstrating a wand movement? Both of those would have gotten five, if it weren’t Slytherins doing it!”

“I think it was rather cruel to call on Lily like that, too,” Daphne chimes in. “She could tell Lily didn’t want to answer, but she still made her.” 

“Very unprofessional,” Seventhson sniffs in agreement.

Their next class is History of Magic. Professor Binns is even worse than her religion teacher at St. Gummarus, and that’s saying something. Within twenty minutes, almost everyone in the class is doing something else, and Professor Binns hasn’t noticed at all. Crabbe and Goyle are snoring softly in the back of the classroom, Draco Malfoy is folding paper birds and sending them flying around the room, and Pansy Parkinson is reading _Witch Weekly_. The only people paying attention are Honoria Seventhson and her equally swotty friend William Pancras. 

Theodore Nott reads the entire time. After a split second of hesitation, Tracey decides to do the same. She pulls out a book on magical fungi and digs in. At the end of the period, Theodore Nott doesn’t seem to notice that class is dismissed, so Tracey gently taps the top of his book to get his attention. His eyebrows twist slightly as if in confusion, but he nods. Later, during Charms, Theodore Nott scoots his inkwell to the edge of his desk when Tracey forgets hers. 

After classes have finished, the prefect takes them to the library. The library is full of ancient books— brocade books and plain books and books without covers, tall books and short books, narrow books and thick books, books full of illustrations and books with none, books that will tell you extra if you stroke their spine, and other books that will nip at your fingers if you touch their cover at all. 

There are also cats. Loads and _loads_ of cats. There are tabbies and calicos and tortoiseshells, fluffy and spotted and striped cats, cats with big, pointy ears and cats with short, round ears. They meander along the shelves and nap in pools of light from the many windows. Millicent Bulstrode even spends her entire time at the library with the cats instead of studying. 

With every passing day, Tracey gets more and more comfortable at Hogwarts. Her favorite class is definitely Herbology, tucked away in the greenhouses. They’re made out of shiny glass with peaked roofs, though a few domes pop up here and there too. One of the domes even has a weathervane of tarnished silver metal. Instead of being shaped like a chicken, it’s shaped like a phoenix, complete with flames.

The insides of the greenhouses are far better than the outsides, however. Greenhouse One is used for their Herbology lessons, and inside there are all sorts of interesting things. There are succulents and fungi and perennials and, in the domes, even some trees and tall dark plants whose leaves are thick enough and wide enough for someone to picnic under.

Best of all, when Tracey lingers after their Thursday Herbology class to ask a few questions, Professor Sprout suggests that Tracey could help her out in Greenhouses One and Two, something Tracey agrees to at once. 

On Friday, it’s time for Double Potions. Tracey knows she’ll need a partner. She reminds herself of Theodore sharing his inkwell with her, and tries to stay calm.

Most of the Gryffindors troop in just moments before the bell. The Slytherins subtly crane their necks, trying to get a look at the Boy Who Lived. He’s skinny and disappointing, his scar covered by his wild black hair. The only thing of note about him is his deep green eyes, but those hardly rise from where he firmly fixes them on his desk. 

Some of the first years pair up quickly, without even a glance to confirm things. Lily and Daphne, William and Honoria, and Gregory and Vincent all start moving to grab their supplies at once, already certain of their partnerships. Pansy looks imploringly at Draco, and Draco raises an eyebrow invitingly at Blaise. Theodore watches the exchange impassively, then gets up and moves towards the cabinet.

Tracey’s stomach twists. Draco has risen to grab potions ingredients, and Pansy is trying to make eye contact with Tracey. Tracey focuses on carefully taking her copper knife out its sheath and checking that the blade is sharp. She can hear Bulstrode shifting uncomfortably in her seat alone at the very back of the classroom. 

Suddenly, snake fangs skitter out across Tracey’s desk. She moves instinctively to stop one from falling off the edge. Theodore slides into the seat next to Tracey, placing the other ingredients down more gently. Without a word, he begins to weigh the dried nettles. After a split second, Tracey starts to mix the essence of willow bark and vanilla extract together over low heat. 

Pansy hurries past, her face flushed with high color. The Gryffindors are too busy in their chatter to notice, but Tracey sees Blaise’s lips twist in amusement as Pansy sits down next to Bulstrode with a loud, angry clatter. Tracey lets out an imperceptible breath. She thinks she’ll manage at this school after all.


	3. September 6th 1991–early March, 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tracey begins spending some of her free periods in the greenhouses. Unluckily, she doesn't get to spend them alone.

Three days a week, Herbology ends right before a period that Tracey has free. Having been told by Professor Sprout that she can help out, Tracey stays in the greenhouse for her free period that Tuesday. 

“By the way, dear,” Professor Sprout tells her, “I invited two other first years to help out as well.” 

Tracey nods, smiling prettily, but inside she’s frowning. She doesn’t want to have to interact with people! She does enough of that all day!

The first of the other students Professor Sprout invited comes in just as Professor Sprout finishes speaking. He’s a Hufflepuff who she recognizes as Wayne Hopkins, and he’s chubby with thick red hair and brown eyes. He eyes Tracey in a rather unfriendly way, his eyes lingering on the green trim of her robes. 

They wait several minutes for the third student, but they don’t show up and eventually Professor Sprout starts explaining. She’ll be having them help with whatever prep work or upkeep she’d already be doing, as well as explaining other concepts and helping them out with anything else they’re curious about. Today, they’ll be helping her repot the Umbrella Flowers. 

They’re wrist-deep in potting soil when the third student dashes in, babbling about being terribly sorry and not meaning to forget. Tracey glances up and sees to her surprise that it’s Miranda Brocklehurst. She grins at Tracey, her hazel eyes sparkling, and settles in next to her to start repotting. 

Miranda is friendly, constantly chattering and talking as she works, but Hopkins barely says a word, instead focusing on doing his work perfectly. Tracey suspects that Professor Sprout arranged this entire thing to get him to socialize more. 

As for Miranda, Tracey has her own ideas of why Miranda suddenly developed an interest in Herbology. When Hopkins and Professor Sprout aren’t paying attention, she snips off little clippings from plants. Sometimes she’ll pop them into her mouth, other times she’ll put them into little sealed vials she seems to have specially for this purpose. She’s subtle, but not subtle enough to fool a Slytherin. Tracey doesn’t say anything, but she files away the information for later.

As time passes, Tracey settles into a routine at Hogwarts.

In the mornings, Tracey wakes up early to shower, brush her teeth, and wash her face in privacy. The other girls use sweet-smelling, colorful goop in glass bottles instead of muggle shampoo. Similarly, they have toothbrushes made of boar bristles and soft wood, not brightly colored plastic. Embarrassed, Tracey hides her painfully muggle things and resolves to buy some proper toiletries as soon as she can. 

By the time the other girls are waking, Tracey is settled comfortably in the common room. She likes to sit in the window seats against the glass wall, so she can watch the underwater plants drift in their water-sodden breezes and note every strange fish that slips by. If she needs to, she spends this time finishing homework or studying concepts she didn’t get, but she prefers to just watch the lake. 

Sometimes the House Ghost, a silvery, bloodstained man called the Bloody Baron, watches the lake with her. Although he looks rather scary, he’s not obtrusive, and she quickly learns to ignore him, even when he reads over her shoulder. 

Then, Tracey goes down to breakfast with her dorm mates. She has a bit of a knack for finding her way through the castle, so they’ll let Tracey lead, watching as she examines little details like the portraits, the style of carpet, even the height of the ceiling before deciding which way to go. The others don’t seem to realize, but the castle makes little puzzles, and if you’re clever enough, you can figure out where each choice leads. Daphne just jokes that Hogwarts is fond of her.

During breakfast, she sits with her dorm mates. Most of them exchange small talk throughout the larger group of first years, and then devolve into smaller conversations within dorm-room cliques. Theo reads instead of talking, so Tracey does the same thing. She doesn’t have the same appetite for reading that Theodore does, but she does have an instinctual desire to fit in.

During classes, she sits next to Theo. Theo takes careful, meticulous notes. Tracey tries taking notes, but she can’t stand it, and so she ends up simply trying to listen intently. They have one free period every day; two days a week, Tracey spends it with Theo in the library, quietly working together. Tracey doesn’t enjoy studying the way Theodore does, so she takes every opportunity to be the one to fetch books. She develops a slight reputation for being good at navigating. The cats are fond of her, and sometimes they’ll come up to her carrying relevant books in their mouths. Occasionally other first years will join them, most often Draco, who sometimes seems to tire of his less-than-genius hangers-on. 

On days when Tracey’s free period is after Herbology, she works with Professor Sprout. Hopkins continues staying resolutely silent, and Miranda continues chattering and stealing. Over time, Miranda seems to get more and more annoyed with Hopkins’ silence, and becomes reduced to petty insults in a futile effort to make him talk. Tracey loves Herbology, so despite her rather irritating companions, Herbology free periods are some of her favorite parts of the week.

Every Saturday morning, Draco’s owl brings him an elegant box of premium Belgian chocolates. Throughout the week, Tracey nods in agreement when he complains about Potter’s arrogance and stupidity. When Draco goads Potter into flying unsupervised and then later into going out after curfew, she laughs and eggs him on. During free periods with Theo, she always finds the books he’s looking for. On Saturday mornings, when Draco divvies up the chocolates among his favored friends, he always has a piece or two for her. 

October begins. Some of the others are talking about organizing a Samhain festival. Lily Moon and her family are Irish, and back home, Samhain is very important to them. Despite most of the others being English, or even in Draco and Blaise’s case originally French and Italian, they all celebrate Samhain as well. 

It turns out that the upper years already hold a Samhain bonfire, open to anyone who wants to come. After a Scottish Head of House popularized it a few centuries ago ago, it’s become a bit of a Slytherin tradition. Although it’s technically held after curfew, even the prefects go, and they won’t get in trouble for being out after class. 

On October 31st, however, the Hallowe’en feast is interrupted by their Defense professor hurrying in and shouting something about a troll in the dungeons. Amid the panic, Professor Snape has them sleep in the Great Hall instead of going to their common rooms as they’re told. Rumors circulate about Harry Potter. Friday classes are cancelled as the teachers investigate the incident, and Draco gets his chocolates a day early. He gives Lily extra chocolates and complains a bit louder than normal.

Classes resume without any real explanation as to what happened to the troll. Draco tells the other Slytherin first years that his father will make sure justice is served, however, and Lily nods in relief. Tracey knows Lily’s parents were talking of withdrawing her from the school. 

Quidditch season starts. Tracey isn’t much interested in Quidditch, but everyone else is, even Theo, so she bundles up in her thickest cloak and goes out to watch. It’s pretty interesting at first, until Potter mucks everything up like he usually does. Tracey nods along with Draco’s complaints and savors the fire berry-infused piece of chocolate he gives her. 

The cold hits all at once. Hogwarts wakes up to a thick blanket of snow covering the grounds. The Black Lake is covered in a thick, unmelting layer of ice, although a quick look out the East wall in the common room shows that the ice certainly doesn’t go all the way down. 

Tracey spends less time in the greenhouses and more time in the library and common room. She plays wizarding chess against Theo and watches the windows. One day, while she’s playing, she looks up to see a mermaid behind Theo! She almost startles in surprise, but realizes that would be rude and gives the mermaid a small, shy smile instead. The mermaid watches the entire chess game keenly, and only leaves once they put the chessboard away. 

Christmas approaches quickly. Early one morning in December (Tracey has gotten proper shampoo and things, but she’s still in the habit of waking early) she curls up in her favorite little alcove, trying to compose a letter to her mother. She has no desire to go back for Christmas, but she’s not sure what excuse to use.

“Go home for Christmas,” comes a rasping murmur near her ear. Tracey startles, but when she turns there is only the Bloody Baron, his mournful eyes fixed on her half-finished letter. Tracey sighs, and crumples up the parchment. 

Tracey researches appropriate presents using the books in the common room, then carefully chooses presents based on what she learned. She doesn’t want any of her yearmates to think her odd. On the Hogwarts Express, she purposefully has a bit of trouble getting her trunk off the rack so that the others, in their hurry to get home, don’t get a look at who’s picking her up. 

At home, she tries not to look disappointed by the bland muggleness of everything around her. The presents she receives are good, though. Not so much her mother’s, which is some muggle fountain pen that she’ll never use, but the ones from her peers. She wears her new cashmere scarf everywhere, and tries to savor the small box of chocolates Draco gave her. Best of all, however, is the present Professor Sprout gives her after break—a potted cutting from her prized Dittany plant.

After Christmas break, the teachers double down on homework. Theo and Tracey spend hours in the library. Tracey doesn’t like the long hours of studying, but she endures them through Theo’s dry wit and the library cats’ company.

Things warm up, and the endless snow turns to even more endless rain. The grounds turn into a bog full of little rivers, huge puddles, and mushrooms begin springing up. Thick green moss grows everywhere.

Tracey starts to spend more time in the greenhouses again, partially to get away from all the schoolwork she should be doing. They’ve moved on to slightly more advanced plants now, and Professor Sprout is so happy with their progress that she’s talking about organizing a special field trip just for them. Miranda is working even harder at getting Hopkins to crack, and one day, he does. 

“You may be willing to make friends with some—” he jerks his shoulder at Tracey, “—budding Dark witch, but _I’m_ not! She may act like she’s friends with you, but really? She’s never going to think of you as a real person! She’s a Slytherin, you know—they think muggleborns are about as good as cats or dogs!” Finally finished, he turns back towards his Puffapod.

Miranda frowns. “Hey! I’ll have you know that Tracey is a mu-” 

Tracey stamps on Miranda’s foot, hard.

“-marvelously tolerant person,” Miranda revises smoothly. “She doesn’t think any of that stuff, do you Tracey?” 

Tracey cautiously shakes her head. 

“As for Dark magic, I don’t think _any_ eleven-year-olds know that sort of stuff, even Slytherins.” 

Hopkins eyes Tracey warily. “You promise you really don’t think that stuff?” 

Tracey nods. “I promise.” 

“Alright,” Hopkins says at last. “...I’m Wayne, by the way.” 

“Tracey,” Tracey says, shaking his hand. 

Later, after Hopkins leaves, Miranda pulls her aside. “Why didn’t you want me telling Wayne that you’re muggleborn?” 

“It’s my own business,” Tracey tells her flatly.

Miranda lets out a huff of frustration. “That doesn’t explain anything! Really, Tracey, why not?!”

Tracey ignores her. The more Tracey ignores her, the more worked up Miranda gets, until Tracey is serenely packing up her things like Miranda isn’t having a miniature tantrum a meter away from her. 

Finally, Miranda says, “If you aren’t willing to tell me why you don’t want Wayne to know you’re muggleborn, it must not be very important, so I’ll just let him know next free period.” 

Tracey turns towards Miranda. “If you tell Wayne, I’ll let your Head of House know that you’ve been stealing from the professors _and_ the students all semester,” she says coldly.

Miranda draws back, face pale. “How do you-” 

“Now, you aren’t going to tell, are you?” Tracey confirms.

“I- No, I won’t tell,” Miranda replies, subdued. 

Tracey nods, and sweeps out of the greenhouses.


	4. an evening in early March, 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professor Sprout takes them on a field trip to the Forbidden Forest.

Professor Sprout’s promised field trip happens just after the Hufflepuff-Gryffindor Quidditch match. Tracey is glad she’s got the field trip to look forward to, as the atmosphere in the Slytherin common room has been absolutely wretched the past couple of days. After seven years, Gryffindor has overtaken them in the House Cup… it's all the Slytherins seem to be able to talk about. The only consolation, at least according to Draco, is that the Gryffindors had done it by beating _Hufflepuff_ too. 

It’s a very special field trip indeed. Professor Sprout is taking them into the Forbidden Forest to pick aconite, which only blooms during the night of the new moon. She tells them to take a long nap that afternoon, and gives them special passes to be out past curfew. Tracey is so excited it takes real effort for her to go to sleep when it comes time to nap, but she manages. 

That night, she meets Professor Sprout and the others at the entrance hall. They’re all dressed in their robes, with heavy wool cloaks against the cold. As instructed, they’re also wearing gloves to protect against aconite’s poisonous leaves. Miranda is practically bouncing with excitement, and even taciturn Wayne looks alert and interested. 

Professor Sprout passes out the lamps that they’ll use to light their way. They’re colored a pale purple, so that the light won’t damage the delicate aconite flowers. Then, she gives them each a small bell to ring that is enchanted to ward off any Dark creatures. Once they’re all ready, she pushes open the castle doors, and they set off.

The night air is crisp, and the smell of rain is on the air. Without a moon, the darkness is thick and presses in close, but the purple-toned lamps do a surprisingly good job of lighting the way. Professor Sprout leads them past the groundskeeper’s hut, then down a slender, twisting path knotted with the gnarled roots of ancient trees. Huge, pale moths draw close to them, attracted by the dim light of their lamps. Tracey sees Miranda stuff a particularly large one into one of her glass jars.

“Aconite likes to grow in wild places,” Professor Sprout tells them cheerfully, “So we’ll have to venture deep into the forest. Keep your eyes peeled for hoof-marks; aconite often grows near where centaurs live.” 

They walk on without speaking. It begins to rain softly, a whispering rain that beads crystal-like on Miranda’s curls and trickles down under Tracey’s collar. There is the soft calling of an owl in the distance, and the sound of rustling leaves close by. Tracey scans the ground near the path, looking for hoof-prints.

Tracey is just starting to suspect that the ground is too covered with leaves for them to spot anything when Wayne makes a quiet noise of surprise. “Look,” he whispers. “Right there.” He points, and sure enough there’s the light indent of hooves.

Professor Sprout presses near to take a look. “Good job, Mr. Hopkins,” she says, approving. “Come along, we’d best follow these.” And with that, she plunges fearlessly off the path. After a moment of hesitation, Miranda follows her, Wayne and Tracey a few steps behind. 

The centaur’s hoof-marks are irregular and difficult to spot, but Professor Sprout is an old hand at finding them. She leads them over a slow-trickling stream, past a thick mossy stump bristling with mushrooms, and under the remains of a lightning-struck tree. The trees around them seem to grow more and more ancient, which Professor Sprout tells them is a good sign. 

All at once, they burst into a small glade. Professor Sprout gasps, and a moment later, the students see what startled her. 

Only about a foot away from them, a pale, beautiful horse is lying on the muddy ground. There’s a straight cut across its neck, and luminescent silver blood pools on the ground underneath it. Huge bites of flesh are being torn out from the unicorn by invisible jaws, and a big black dog gnaws on the unicorn’s flank. The roots of the black-wooded trees seem to drink from ground soaked in its blood, and several carrion birds are perched on its shoulders.

For a moment, they just stare at the sight silently. Tracey can hardly believe that only a short time ago, the unicorn was alive— walking and eating and moving and thinking. It was a being, and now it’s not a being at all but a lump of bone and meat and sinew. Just the same as when it was alive, but with something incredibly vital missing from it.

Professor Sprout takes a deep breath and steps forward. The black dog growls warningly, low in its throat, and one of the ravens is staring beadily at them, holding what looks like the unicorn’s eye in its gleaming black beak. Judging by the way Professor Sprout is staring at the scavengers, she doesn’t like them one whit. Surprisingly, Tracey herself feels rather sympathetic towards them. Judging by the clean slice across the unicorn’s neck, it wasn’t any of them that killed the unicorn. They’re just making use of what would otherwise be waste. It’s not like the unicorn is around to complain, and even if it got a say, Tracey likes to think it would want the nutrients and calories in its flesh and bone to get used for something. 

Professor Sprout pulls out her bell and gives it a hard shake. A single chime echoes through the air, and then there’s a hard _crack!_ as a dark branch falls right on her head.

The children gape at their fallen teacher. Wayne has moved the branch and is shaking Professor Sprout, but she doesn’t move. Tracey, meanwhile, is silently and carefully setting down her own bell. Miranda follows her lead. 

Tracey sees a branch directly above Wayne’s head shaking threateningly. “Wayne,” she says sharply. “Put down your bell.” 

She expects Wayne to argue, but he lays the bell down on the forest floor next to the other two’s. Wayne turns back towards Professor Sprout, but Tracey starts speaking in a hushed voice.

“We won’t take your food,” she promises. “Just let us go. Let us take ourselves and our teacher out of here unharmed.” She looks at the Dark creatures, half-hoping for some sort of response.

For a moment, there is only the sound of flesh being ripped from bone—and then Miranda reaches out and curls her long fingers around the unicorn’s spiraling horn. Tracey expects Miranda to lose her fingers, maybe part of her arm too, but the Dark creatures don’t react. As Tracey watches disbelievingly, Miranda slips a potions knife out of her pocket and starts sawing at the flesh around the base of the horn. 

“We should really be getting out of here,” Tracey hisses at her. If Wayne sees this, they’re going to be out here all night arguing.

“Just a moment,” Miranda replies, unfazed, like this an everyday occurrence and Tracey is needlessly making a fuss.

“Thank you for letting Miranda take the horn,” Tracey murmurs quickly, and then she turns away from Miranda. She moves to join Wayne in kneeling next to Professor Sprout. 

“Have you checked her pulse?” Tracey asks. 

Wayne nods. “It’s steady. I think she’s just knocked unconscious.” Wayne begins running his fingers along her head, diligently checking every inch of her scalp. Tracey risks a quick glance over her shoulder. Miranda is making surprisingly good progress with the unicorn horn.

Wayne is checking the back of Professor Sprout’s head when Tracey hears a soft tinkling noise. She can only hope that it was Miranda putting the unicorn horn into one of her glass jars. Finished looking, Wayne nods in satisfaction.

“No contusions that I can find. I think she’s probably just got a concussion, so it should be fine to move her.” Tracey nods as well. 

Wayne looks over her shoulder and his expression changes at once. “What the fuck?” He asks hoarsely. 

Heart pounding, Tracey turns as well. Miranda is standing there with a guilty expression on her face, her sticky fingers wrapped around the lid of a glass jar as she struggles to twist it on. There’s a bloody unicorn horn clearly visible inside it. 

“Did you cut the horn off the unicorn?” Wayne asks slowly.

There’s a moment of complete silence, and then Wayne says, “You _really_ shouldn’t have done that.” 

“She can’t change what she did,” Tracey says.“But she can change what she does in the future. If you tell a teacher, she won’t have a chance to. She’ll be expelled, and she’ll never have another chance at living in the magical world.” 

There’s a long moment of silence, and then Wayne says, “I won’t tell anyone.” He holds out his hand. “I'll close it.” 

Tracey half-expects him to take it and smash it, but he really does just close it, then hands it back to Miranda. “C’mon, let’s get moving,” he says. 

They leave the bells where they are. It takes several tries to heave Professor Sprout up into their arms, and even then it feels like she’s going to slip any second. To make matters worse, they need to hold their lamps, too. They shift Professor Sprout several times until it’s as comfortable as they can make it and then start trudging. As they leave the clearing, Tracey whispers, “Thank you,” under her breath.

The slog through the forest is thoroughly miserable. The rain has gotten heavier, and the children are soon soaked to the bone. Every few steps, what had seemed to be firm ground will slip and slide beneath their feet, sending them tumbling into thorny brambles. Soon they, and Professor Sprout, are covered in mud and endless scratches.

Worst of all, the rain is slowly smoothing away the centaur’s footprints, and soon even Wayne’s keen eye can’t spot the hoof-marks. Miranda urges them to press on, saying that she wants to be back in the castle as soon as possible and they shouldn’t dawdle.

“No, that’s the worst possible thing that we could do!” Tracey replies sharply. “If we go on without being absolutely sure where we’re going, we’ll be lost for good.”

Wayne nods, shifting Professor Sprout’s position in his arms.

Tracey takes a slow breath, looking around the nearby shrubbery critically. She’s just starting to give it up as a lost cause, when Miranda says, “Wait, I think I recognize that tree!” She points to a charred tree half-hidden behind a copse of ash saplings.

They slip, slide, and clamber their way past the gnarled, lightning struck tree. After a few minutes of squinting through the dim, rain-soaked forest, Wayne manages to spot the thick stump from earlier with its distinctive crown of moss and fungi. Trying to find the stream of water takes far longer; it’s hard to make out the quiet trickle of running water under the heavy rain falling all around them and the claps of thunder splitting the air.

Tracey has just managed to figure out where the stream is when Miranda’s shaking arms give out and Professor Sprout nearly slips to the ground. 

“There’s no way we’re going to get back to the castle this way,” Wayne grumbles as Miranda gets back under Professor Sprout’s bulk.

“I told you we should have moved faster!” Miranda retorts, rolling her eyes.

Tracey, however, has been struck by inspiration. “The Levitation Charm!”

“It doesn’t work on people, remember?” Miranda replies.

“We won’t do it on _Professor Sprout_ ,” Tracey answers, “we’ll do it on her _clothes_.” 

Miranda and Wayne gape at her for a moment, and then Miranda reluctantly admits, “That actually is pretty clever.” 

With all three levitation charms working together, they manage to lift Professor Sprout and direct her floating body through the tangle of trees. Pretty soon, they’re back on the path and making good time towards the castle. Even the rain seems to lighten up slightly, although at this point they’re so soaked it doesn’t make much of a difference.

The forest thins, and they can see the friendly lights of the castle, gleaming as if to welcome them back. Soon the turrets and towers of the castle become visible as well. Smiling, Miranda points out Ravenclaw Tower. 

Compared to their long night in the Forbidden Forest, the stroll through the grounds seems like child’s play. They’re a couple of meters from the castle when the entrance hall doors creak open and a hunchbacked figure peers out, a scrawny cat twisting around his ankles. 

“Breaking curfew, are you?” Filch calls. “Thought you could sneak back in without anyone noticing?” 

“No sir,” Miranda speaks up. “We were out on an approved field trip with Professor Sprout.” Wayne digs his water-sodden permission slip out of one of his pockets and waves it at Filch. “We were looking for aconite when we came across a dead unicorn in the forest. Professor Sprout got knocked out by a falling branch, and we came back as quickly as we could.” 

They see Filch’s face grow pale. “Get in here. At once.” His voice has lost its gloating quality, and as they hurry in, he doesn’t say a word about them dripping all over the floors. 

Wayne offers the permission slip to Filch again, but he hardly even glances at it. He’s speaking rapidly to Mrs. Norris, who starts dashing down the corridor. 

“Hurry along to bed,” He tells them. “No dawdling— I’ll know if you do!”

Wayne lingers over Professor Sprout, looking worried, but a glare from Filch sends him off as well. They walk silently together through the corridors, the only sound the soft pitter-patter of their footsteps and the water dripping off their robes all over the stones. Wayne peels off first, and they exchange a heartfelt goodnight. A few minutes later, Miranda leaves as well and Tracey walks on alone through the dungeons. Cold and wet though she is, she feels oddly cheerful. When she settles into bed that night, it’s with a little sigh of relief.


	5. March 1992-August 1992

Madam Pomfrey patches up Professor Sprout quickly, and she’s back to her usual schedule in only a few days. She apologizes profusely to the trio, saying that she would have never taken them out into the Forbidden Forest if she had known there was something killing unicorns out there. She also reassures them that the groundskeeper is looking for whatever dark creature it is, and that now that the Headmaster is aware of the problem, it’ll be solved in no time. Although Tracey has her own thoughts on the matter, she keeps them to herself.

Tracey, Wayne and Miranda are far closer, now. Ever since the incident in the Forbidden Forest, they’ve become a lot more comfortable with each other. Despite herself, Tracey finds herself liking and trusting the other two, perhaps a bit more than she should. Professor Sprout seems rather delighted by the entire thing, only adding to Tracey’s suspicion that she orchestrated their working together specifically to get Wayne to socialize more. 

Despite her growing bond with Wayne and Miranda, Tracey makes sure not to neglect her relationships with the other Slytherins. She and her dorm mates share little tidbits of gossip about what dumb thing Potter did recently, or who has a crush on whom. Tracey has a knack for overhearing the juiciest bits, as people often tend to forget she’s there. 

She and Theo continue partnering together in class. Tracey is proud that, though in most classes Theo is the one helping her out, in Herbology and Transfiguration Tracey definitely has a better grasp on the material. They also continue studying together during the free period Tracey isn’t in the greenhouses. Tracey still doesn’t like learning theory, but Theo with his sly sense of humor is good at making things interesting. Sometimes Daphne, Draco or Blaise will ask her to look for books on the subjects they’re researching because of her reputation as good at navigating the library. Tracey still thinks it’s just because the library cats are fond of her. 

Draco continues sharing his chocolates with her. He’s started saying that if it was him on the Slytherin Quidditch team they’d have won, which Tracey frankly thinks is a little unlikely. She likes being implicitly accepted by someone so far up the social ladder too much to ever say so, of course.

As Easter holidays approach, the professors seem determined to pile on as much homework as possible. It gets so bad that Tracey can’t spend many of her free periods in the greenhouses anymore because she needs to spend them writing essays instead.

Remembering the Bloody Baron’s advice, Tracey goes home for Easter holidays. It gives her a bit of a break from the pressure of oncoming exams, at least. She ends up exchanging some owls with Miranda and Wayne, which helps her cope with the blandness of non-magical London. Still, she’s glad to get away from the crushing muggleness of it all and return to Hogwarts, even if exams are getting ever closer.

The weather gets warmer. It stops raining all of the time, and the mud puddles all across the grounds dry up. Wildflowers start popping up like weeds, and a pleasant smell starts to rise in the air. The fires in the Slytherin common rooms are put out, and it’s no longer so damp in the dungeons.

Tracey gives up almost entirely in spending time in the greenhouses. She spends every free period she has, as well as just about every free minute she has, in the library with Theo, trying to remember the years of each of the Goblin Rebellions and which stars are in what constellations. 

Draco starts telling everyone who’ll listen that the groundskeeper’s got a baby dragon in his hut, which practically no one believes. Tracey at least pretends to, which gets her far enough in Draco’s good graces that he starts specifically giving her the chocolates that he knows she likes. Tracey thinks he mostly does it to needle Blaise, who said Draco must be going bonkers to think such a thing. Blaise is very pointedly not getting any chocolates from Draco. 

Only a week or so later, Potter and his two hangers-on are caught out of bed and lose a hundred and fifty points from Gryffindor. The chronicle of how it happened is a bit muddled, but Draco claims responsibility, and judging by the way Potter and Weasley have been glaring at him, it might even be true. Everyone except for the Slytherins seem pretty sour towards Potter now.

Exams come painfully quickly. Tracey thinks she does well on the practical exams. Professor McGonagall compliments her on the engraved design she added to her snuffbox, and Professor Snape nods when he sees her finished Forgetfulness Potion. She’s a lot less confident when it comes to the written exams; just after turning her written Astronomy Exam she realized about half of the names she wrote down for Jupiter’s moons were actually Saturn’s moons, and she barely even managed to finish the History of Magic exam. 

She spends most of the week after exams in the greenhouses with Wayne and Miranda. It’s absolutely sweltering inside, but it’s good to have her hands knuckle-deep in earth again. Professor Sprout reassures all of them that she’s sure they did better on the exams than they think they did, and that even then exam grades don’t really matter much until OWLs. 

Towards the end of the week, Tracey starts hearing the oddest rumors about Potter and his friends going into the closed-off room in the Third Floor Corridor. During the end-of-year feast, the rumors are confirmed by, of all people, _Dumbledore_ , and he gives them _points for it_! The Slytherins are absolutely spitting in rage. They’ve been humiliated in front of the entire school, and worst of all, everyone is clapping for the Gryffindors—even the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws! Lily looks like she might cry, and Tracey thinks Draco might actually challenge Potter to a real duel this time.

Exam results come back. As Tracey suspected, she didn’t do well in Astronomy and History of Magic, but she manages to muddle through with an Acceptable in both. She got an Exceeds Expectations for her Charms, Flying and Defense Against the Dark Arts exams, and in Transfiguration, Potions and Herbology, she got Outstandings. In fact, for Transfiguration she was near the top of her year, and in Herbology she only just fell behind Neville Longbottom. Overall she’s pretty satisfied with her results. 

Everyone else in Slytherin has passed; even Greg and Vince managed to scrape by. Draco whines about how he’s second in Flying, just behind Potter. He’s behind Theo for Potions as well, but Tracey doesn’t see him complaining about that.

On the train ride back, they mostly stew over the House Cup. William Pancras and Honoria Seventhson think they should just try harder next year, but pretty much everyone else thinks that this proves that Dumbledore’s so biased that there’s no winning. Tracey makes sure to be the last one to leave the train so that nobody sees who her mother is. 

The summer seems to stretch on endlessly. As part of her conditions for allowing Tracey to go to Hogwarts, Tracey’s mother made her promise that she would try not to fall too far behind when it comes to muggle schooling, which means Tracey spends most of her summer learning useless muggle concepts that she’ll almost certainly never use. She exchanges very occasional owls with Theo, Daphne, and Lily, and more frequent owls with Miranda and Wayne. She even goes to Diagon Alley several times and just appreciates how lovely it is to be around magic. 

All in all, she’s very glad to go back to Hogwarts that September.


	6. September 1st, 1992-Hallowe’en 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something wicked comes this way.

On the ride into Hogwarts, everyone is chattering about what they did that summer. Blaise wants to tell everyone about his tour around Italy, Draco wants to talk about visiting relatives in France, and Pansy Parkinson wants to talk about her trip to Rotterdam. Even swotty Honoria Seventhson is eager to brag about her trip to Switzerland. Everyone is so busy talking about what _they_ did that summer that no one notices that Tracey doesn’t say a word about what _she_ did that summer. All for the best.

At one point, Hermione Granger pops her head in the carriage and is halfway through asking if they’ve seen Harry Potter and Ron Weasley when she realizes just who’s in the carriage, at which point she gasps, makes a face like the slimy Slytherins are the reason why her friends aren’t on the train, and hurries off to go ask another carriage. After that, they spend the train ride speculating where Potter and Weasley are. William Pancras suggests that they got expelled, Pansy thinks that Potter suffocated under a stack of fanmail, and Millicent Bulstrode lists in rather graphic detail how Professor Snape could have dismembered Potter for potions ingredients. The rest of the Slytherin second-years stare at Bulstrode for a moment in mingled disgust and amusement, and she flushes and returns to petting her cat. 

“...And what would Professor Snape do with Weasley?” Pansy asks at last, looking rather ill. 

“I don’t think weasels have any magical properties,” Blaise says dryly, and the entire compartment roars with laughter. 

They’re still laughing and making jokes as they exit the train. Tracey sees Granger talking rather worriedly to the groundskeeper where he stands towering over the crowd of new first years. 

“Were we that small only last year?” Daphne murmurs. 

“I think Lily might still be,” Blaise jokes as he saunters by. 

Now that they’re second years, they don’t take the boats across the Great Lake anymore. Instead, Draco is telling the group importantly, they take horseless carriages. _Horseless carriages?_ Tracey thinks to herself wryly. _Do they mean cars?_

But of course, they really do mean carriages. Except they’re not horseless. They’re very odd horses, to be fair, with their huge, leathery wings and reptilian features, but Tracey would definitely call them horses. The strangest thing is that the other second years don’t seem to be able to see them at all. 

“I wonder what kind of enchantment they use,” Daphne muses as she helps Lily up. 

“It’s not an enchantment,” Theo says, pulling himself in. His face looks even paler than normal. “They’re pulled by Thestrals.” 

“Thestrals?” Lily’s nose wrinkles. 

Theo nods, looking out the window at the passing landscape. 

Lily and Daphne exchange an awkward glance, and Daphne quickly changes the subject. Soon they’re all talking about the new hybrid variety of Valerian that was developed recently. Theo thinks that the new variety will likely make the potions longer-lasting but perhaps less effective, while Daphne and Tracey are more inclined to speculate about how much easier this new variety would likely be to care for. 

Lily is just suggesting that they could ask Professor Snape what his thoughts are when the carriage rolls to a stop. Tracey drinks in the familiar sight of the castle for a moment, then hurries in with the others. There are crowds of people all around them, laughing and hugging and welcoming each other back to school. Professor Dumbledore tings his glass with a fork, and everyone quiets and hurries to their house tables to await the sorting of the new firsties. 

It’s somewhat disconcerting watching the Sorting from the perspective of an older student. There are so many first years, and they’re all so small! Tracey is certain that this year is bigger than hers. It’s even more disconcerting how many of the new first years are named, in some fashion or another, after Harry Potter. There’s Harry-James Abernath, and Harietta Ackerson, and Hadrian-James Augustine, and Harry Banders, and Henry Bonk, and Henrietta Bucks, and they haven’t even gotten to C yet!

At some point Draco, Vince and Greg start booing all the people named after Potter, especially the ones that get Sorted into Gryffindor. Luckily Slytherin seems to be getting a good lot too—they all make sure to clap as loud as they can for all the new Slytherin first years, in order to drown out the Weasley twins’ jeering. 

There’s a kind of funny moment when Harriet Flacks get sorted into Slytherin, as at first Draco is booing, but then when the Hat yells out “SLYTHERIN!” he has to do an about-face and start cheering. Tracey sees Lily explaining rather apologetically to the rather scared looking Flacks, and after that Draco waits until _after_ they’ve been Sorted to boo.

By the time the Hat reaches the K’s or so, some of the fun has worn off. 

“This is gonna take forever,” Draco groans. 

“My hands are starting to sting,” Vince agrees. He’s been clapping as hard as he can for every single person who gets Sorted into Slytherin, and now his big hands are as red as the ribbons that were slung along the edges of the Gryffindor table. 

The Sorting finally ends, and the golden plates fill up with food. Tracey savors the familiar taste of Hogwarts food, and enjoys the chatter all around her. It’s so good to be back. She sleeps well that night, draped in sheets of Slytherin green and surrounded by the soft noise of Daphne and Lily breathing in their sleep. 

The next day, the common room is abuzz with the news that Potter and Weasley flew to school using an enchanted muggle car. Everyone is furious that McGonagall only gave them a detention each. If it had been a Slytherin, they would have most _certainly_ been expelled. 

“They literally _broke the Statute of Secrecy_! That is the kind of offense that can get you sent to _Azkaban_!” Cassius Warrington is ranting. There’s a knot of Slytherins standing around him, nodding in agreement. 

“They sentenced my father to six months for that,” one upper year says, her eyes gleaming flintily. “I’d like to see if Potter’d still be his perky little self after six months in the cooler.” There’s a round of dark laughter and lots of nods of agreement. 

They at least have a tiny bit of consolation in the Howler Weasley’s mother sends him. For days after, whenever Draco sees Weasley in the halls, he’ll start imitating Weasley’s mother, saying “–thought your father would die of shame!” in a high, shrieky voice. It never fails to make Weasley turn a satisfying shade of red. 

Tracey falls back into Hogwarts life pretty easily. Classes are about the same as always. Draco has gotten on to the Slytherin Quidditch team as the new Seeker and won’t talk about anything else; even Blaise, who likes Quidditch nearly as much as him, is getting sick of it. There’s a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, a poncy looking fellow named Gilderoy Lockhart. A lot of her classmates seem to be crushing on him; Pansy is mooning over him more than she does over Draco, which is saying something, and every time he so much as looks at the Slytherin table, Lily turns bright red. 

Tracey is back to spending three free periods a week in the greenhouses with Miranda and Wayne. Professor Sprout has been letting them do some very basic prep work in Greenhouse Four with close supervision. Usually Greenhouse Four is only open to third years and above, so Tracey’s chest swells with warmth every time Professor Sprout unlocks it for them. 

The weather cools, and it somehow seems even stormier than last year. The fires in the common room are blazing all the time, and the prefects are pouring Pepper-Up Potion down the throats of anyone who so much as sniffles. Tracey can’t really blame them; Lily ends up staying two weeks in the Hospital Wing with a bad case of strep throat. 

Despite the constant downpour, the foliage outside is bright and vivid. The trees are practically ablaze with reds and oranges and yellows and golds. Every time Tracey passes by the groundskeeper’s hut on the way to the greenhouses, the pumpkins seem to be a foot bigger around. Soon, Tracey thinks, they’ll be big enough to hollow out and make into Cinderella’s carriage. 

Lily starts talking about Samhain again, and Tracey knows that the other second-years are also curious about what they’ll be doing for Samhain. Especially seeing as they missed it last year. 

At the Hallowe’en feast, there are goblets and pumpkins stuffed to bursting with piles upon piles of sweets. Orange streamers hang from every nook and cranny, there are unbelievably large carved jack-o-lanterns, and clouds of live bats are swooping around the Great Hall. Yet, even as they gorge themselves on colcannon and endless glasses of pumpkin juice, Tracey can tell that all her year-mates are waiting for the feast to end so that they can see what happens for Samhain. Not even the troupe of dancing skeletons specially hired by Dumbledore for the occasion can distract them. 

When it finally ends, the Slytherins hurry back to the common room to grab their cloaks. Tracey is just starting to feel a heady rush of excitement when suddenly the crowd comes to an abrupt stop, and the chatter completely ceases. Behind the dense mass of upper years, it’s impossible to see what’s caused them to stop. Draco pushes impatiently through the crowd.

“Enemies of the heir, beware! You’ll be next, mudbloods!” Draco calls suddenly. Tracey can hear the grin in his voice. 

A minute later, the tall, brightly-colored figure of Albus Dumbledore sweeps through, and the crowd slowly begins to disperse. Draco falls back into step with the other Slytherin second-years. His face is flushed, and he’s very nearly skipping. 

“The Chamber of Secrets is open!” He tells them excitedly. “It’s just like in the stories my father used to tell me!” 

“I hope Slytherin’s monster gets to Granger first,” Blaise mutters darkly. Tracey knows Granger beat Blaise for top of Charms last year by a small margin. 

“Is it just muggleborns that Slytherin’s monster gets?” Millicent asks shakily. Tracey is chanting the old prayer about not being noticed and being accepted and nobody realizing that she’s at all different from them. She hasn’t thought of it in a while, so it’s a bit surprising how quickly and easily it comes back to her. 

“I think Salazar Slytherin was alright with half-bloods,” Lily says kindly. “I’m pretty sure he didn’t like muggleborns because they could be spies for the muggles and didn’t know the culture, and half-bloods don’t really do that.” 

“Plus, you’re from the Bulstrode family,” Honoria says, maybe a bit jealously. “That’s in the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Even if you aren’t pureblood yourself, you’re pretty much as good as.” 

“I don’t know if I would say that,” Draco breaks in rather sharply. He glances at Theo as if for support, but Theo is looking off into the distance, like he’s lost in thought. On his other side, Pansy is nodding in agreement. 

“Do you think the Samhain celebration will be cancelled?” Lily asks. Her eyes look a bit misty, and Tracey sees Daphne reach down and give Lily’s hand a little squeeze.

“I don’t see why it should be,” Draco says. He grins in a way that looks almost feral. “It’s not like anyone in Slytherin has anything to be afraid of.” Tracey contains her shiver with ironclad willpower. 

Inside the common room, the upper years are standing in loose clumps, talking in low voices with grim looks on their faces. Draco heads right for one of the bigger knots, and the other second years follow reluctantly behind. 

“–just saying, we don’t even know if this is real,” A smooth voice points out. “What do you think is more likely? After only about a _thousand_ years, the Heir of Slytherin comes back, or the Gryffindors try to frame the Slytherins for some new bullshit?” 

“I don’t know,” a cool-eyed girl replies, folding her arms. “However you package it, it kind of sounds like _blood-traitor_ talk to me.” Draco nods from behind her. His eyes are bright and shining. 

“Alright, that was out of line.” One of the prefects steps in. “Let’s go about this calmly and logically, alright? This doesn’t need to be political.” 

“ _Doesn’t need to be political_?” The cool-eyed girl hisses, spinning towards the prefect. “We’re talking about whether or not we support the Heir of Slytherin! _Of course_ it’s going to be political!”

The prefect opens his mouth to reply, but his eyes fall on Draco. “What’re you doing here?” He asks curtly. 

Lily pushes past Draco. “We were just wondering if the Samhain celebration was still going to happen.” 

The prefect sighs, massaging at the bridge of his nose with the heel of his hand. “No, kid. It’s not gonna happen. Go to bed, alright?” 

Lily nods, her eyes growing shiny with tears. “Bloody Potter,” she mutters. The prefect laughs unexpectedly. “Yup. Bloody Potter,” he chuckles. 

Part of Tracey hopes that’ll be enough for them all to return to ragging on Potter like usual, but instead she sees Draco, thwarted on this front, try to slip into one of the other knots of upper years. The prefect spots him at once and frowns. 

“ _Sonorus_ ,” he says, tapping his throat. “Alright, everyone,” his voice echoes through the room, “The Samhain celebration is cancelled. Third years and below to bed, right now!” 

A groan reverberates through the room, but everyone eventually turns and heads to bed. They brush their teeth silently, Lily sniffling as she tries not to cry, and then go lie wordlessly in bed until they finally fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't updated, I got distracted on a new fic idea. I'll try to be more consistent.


	7. November 1st, 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The castle keeps her promises, and Tracey learns about something very interesting.

Tracey wakes up early the next morning, the remains of a nightmare where a laughing Draco watched as Tracey drowned in blood still clinging to her. She curls up in the most hidden window seat in the common room and watches the fish drift by, letting her ragged breathing slowly calm. 

“Don’t worry,” comes a gravelly undertone. Tracey spins around, heart pounding and thoughts of the Monster of Slytherin thundering through her brain, but it’s only the Bloody Baron. He’s staring sorrowfully at her, the silvery blood down his front looking extra bright in the dim light. “The Sorting Hat told you that Hogwarts would always help her students, and he was right. Come to the library after breakfast.” Without another word, he turns and floats away.

An age later, Tracey hears the soft footfalls of an approaching student. “You alright?” Lily asks. 

“Fine,” Tracey says, getting up. “Just wondering what life as a mermaid would be like.” 

Lily hums in acknowledgement. “I bet if you asked Daphne or Theo, they’d have at least one book that would tell you everything you could ever want to know.” 

“I suppose,” Tracey agrees, “But that would kind of take the fun out of it, wouldn’t it?” 

Lily laughs quietly, nodding in agreement. 

The upper years want everyone to go to the Great Hall for breakfast together. Whatever their arguments were the night before, they seem to have been put on hold for now. The upper years sharp-eyed and stiff-backed as they sweep the younger students into the center of the group and then march the whole lot out to the Great Hall. The entire school is jabbering about recent events. Tracey can see some students from the other houses eyeing Slytherin suspiciously, but at the same time, some people are looking the same way at Potter.

Draco is talking about the Chamber of Secrets as well, but the tone with which he talks about it is very far from the Gryffindors’ self-righteous protests.

“I wonder,” he’s currently musing, “If the Heir of Slytherin will see fit to extend things to the teachers as well as the students… perhaps he’d be willing to get rid of that oaf Hagrid, for instance.” A few feet down the table, Millicent is looking rather ill. 

“He might even get rid of Dumbledore,” Pansy chimes in. 

“Do you really think you should be saying that?” Daphne asks politely, glancing pointedly to where Dumbledore sits at the head of the professors’ table. Pansy wilts, subdued. 

When breakfast at last finishes, Tracey heads towards the library. “I was thinking I might grab a book on mermaids after all,” she tells Lily lightly. Lily nods. 

As she hurries in, she passes Granger, who’s asking the librarian about borrowing a copy of _Hogwarts: A History_ , her hair looking extra frizzy this morning. Tracey wonders if it’s from stress, then abruptly feels almost bad for all the insulting things she’s thought about Granger in the past. 

Tracey has hardly entered the stacks when a tabby cat starts rubbing up against her legs and meowing softly. After hardly a moment, the cat is trotting off, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds to be sure Tracey is still following. At a seemingly random spot, the cat comes to an abrupt stop and sticks his paw underneath the bookshelf like it’s hunting a mouse. He pulls out a slender book covered in an incredibly thick coat of dust. It must have fell under the bookshelf ages ago. Somehow, Tracey senses that this isn’t a book that she should formally check out.

The cat leads her back through the rambling bookshelves. They’re about half way back when another cat pushes a book off a shelf and onto Tracey’s foot. Wincing at the pain, Tracey reaches down and grabs the book. She happens to see the title— _A Surface Level Guide to Scottish Merpeople_. Grinning, she hurries on after the tabby cat. 

After checking out the book on merpeople with Madam Pince, she heads to class. All day she can feel the dust-covered book in her bag, practically burning a hole in her side. She desperately wants to read it, and during her free period with Theo she almost takes it out, but the same intuition that told her not to check it out with Madam Pince also tells her not to read it in public. Which does make her wonder when she _will_ be able to read it, but she supposes she’ll cross that bridge when she comes to it.

Tracey’s walking back to the common room from her last class of the day when she stops to tie her boots. She’s just finished when she hears a rattling, croaky voice next to her ear. “Twelve stones past the stone used to enter the common room, the wall is an illusion.” The Bloody Baron seems to hesitate a second, and then he continues, “I will be available if you have questions.” He inclines his head incrementally towards her book bag, and, Tracey knows, the book. 

Tracey nods back. “Thank you so much,” she says quietly. 

The Bloody Baron’s lips seem to turn up ever so slightly, although it might just be a figment of Tracey’s imagination, and then he floats through the ceiling. 

By the time she reaches the common room, all of the other Slytherins in her year have gone in. She runs her fingers along the wall; the stone feels solid. She frowns, presses her fingers into it. She counts again, moves one over just in case. Still solid. 

Tracey is certain the Baron said twelve across. She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. He said it was an illusion, right? She peers at the stone more closely, but it looks just as real as the other ones. She bites her lip hard, trying to think. And then she sees it. Through the background of her unfocused field of vision, she can see that some of the stones look pale and translucent, like ghosts. Tracey automatically glances back towards it, her eyes snapping back into focus, and it looks perfectly real once more.

Tracey takes a deep breath and slowly lets her eyes unfocus. Carefully, she moves her head so that her eyes are in front of the illusion, but not focused on it. Now, she can see right through the stones. Cautiously, Tracey walks through the empty wall. 

Tracey spins around, heart pounding. Behind her it looks like there’s a solid wall— but when she carefully unfocuses her eyes again, she can see through it, into the corridor she just left behind. She laughs giddily, and she can feel the noise being absorbed by the room, like it’s insulated. There must be some sort of magic here to protect noise from getting out. 

Tracey turns back around. The room itself is small, but cozy. It’s about two square meters worth of space, with only a green brocade armchair and a dingy rug for furniture. There’s an ancient looking lamp hanging from the ceiling, throwing surprisingly bright light through the room. It’s the only lamp Tracey’s ever seen at Hogwarts, and Tracey can’t help but feel her heart warm at the thought of a Slytherin muggleborn—because surely only a muggleborn would install muggle technology at Hogwarts—using this room, maybe even for a similar purpose.

It takes Tracey a bit to calm down. Once she is, she pries off her sodden boots and leaves them next to the rug. Then, she curls up in the brocade armchair and cautiously wipes away the dust. 

The book is made of cracked brown leather sewn together. There’s no title. When Tracey flips to the first page, it reads _Occlumency_ in spidery cursive. The pages are tissue thin, and covered in small, cramped text with barely any space in between lines.

> Occlumency is commonly misunderstood as the art of clearing the mind in order to prevent pillaging by way of Legilimency. Although this is a common technique, it is a basic and flawed defense, and the true master is able to do far more with the art of Occlumency...

Soon, Tracey is swept away, absorbing the book like Theo consumes the books he reads. The introductory chapter explains some of the history of Occlumency and the benefits of learning it. She’s just read the last page of the introductory chapter when the Bloody Baron descends from above.

“Supper is in five minutes,” he tells her. Tracey leaps to her feet, putting the book away and yanking on her socks and shoes. She dashes through the dungeons and slides into her seat at the Slytherin table just as the food appears. 

“Where were you?” Daphne asks. 

“I got distracted reading this book about merpeople,” Tracey tells them. “Did you know that merpeople love shiny objects because they remind them of underwater lights? That’s why they wear pearls and polished pebbles as jewelry, as well.” Happily, she skimmed the book on merpeople during her free period, so she knows enough to tell a few facts about mermaids.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Daphne cuts her off with a laugh. “We’re not Ravenclaws here.” 

The conversation quickly turns to the new essay Binns assigned, and Tracey relaxes. Things feel almost normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's me, your unreliable author. Would it help if I said I now have two other fic ideas distracting me?


	8. November 2nd, 1992– third week of December, 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tracey engages in some extracurricular studies to keep her calm in these trying times. Unfortunately, there are some other students who are doing about the exact opposite of staying calm.

All anyone can think about for the next couple of days is the attack. The older and more reasonable students think the entire thing is a poorly thought-out joke, perhaps by Peeves. Some of the younger students think that Slytherin himself has come back from the dead, or that perhaps there really is an Heir. A small but loud minority believe that the Heir is Potter. Even those who don’t believe Potter’s the Heir keep away, just in case. 

As for Slytherin house, arguments in the common room are frequent. The prefects struggle to keep everyone civil, and once or twice it seems like things will escalate to hexes. Meanwhile, Slytherin continues to present a united front wherever the other houses can see. All of the other houses seem at least a bit wary; Tracey hears rumors that Slytherin had a roaring party the night of the attack, and others that the entirety of Slytherin has sworn to serve and aid in the Heir in his dark mission. The younger students go pale and scurry away whenever they see a green tie, while the older students glare and whisper. 

On Wednesday, a pair of first year Slytherins are cornered by some upper year Gryffindors and hexed to shed slimy scales wherever they go. The hex starts out acting normally, but by the end of classes that day huge chunks of skin are sloughing off. The first years end up in the Hospital wing in critical condition; there are rumors that they might be transferred to St. Mungo's. The Gryffindors responsible claim that it was a terrible accident and the hex malfunctioned. They receive a week’s detention each. Judging by the looks on some of the Slytherin upper year's faces during dinner, they’ll be dealing out their own punishment. 

The prefects call a house meeting, and order that everyone travels in groups of at least two. Furthermore, those third year and below must be escorted around the castle by an upper year. It’s nice that the upper years are protecting them, Tracey thinks, but this is going to make it so much harder for her to get any reading done. 

By Friday, Marcus Flint has struck George Weasley with the Leg-Locker Curse for making a threatening gesture towards Draco. Weasley bruises his nose on the way down, but as the Leg-Locker Curse is a clearly defensive spell, Professor Snape only gives Marcus Flint a single detention. 

On Saturday morning, Draco gives Tracey a chocolate as usual. Tracey slips it into her mouth with her normal smile. It’s the one Draco usually gives to her—a shell of smooth, bitter dark chocolate surrounding a sticky core of spicy-sweet fire berry. It tastes exactly as it always does, not like ash or cardboard, but somehow Tracey isn’t sure if she enjoys it quite as much as she used to.

As predicted, Tracey hasn’t been able to read the book on Occlumency all week. She does try to practice seeing through illusions whenever she can. In the Great Hall, she unfocuses and refocuses her eyes, trying to make the truth reveal itself to her. Eventually she figures out that if she looks first as the edge of the illusion, where sky turns to wall, she can slowly move her unfocused gaze across the center of the ceiling and see clearly to the rafters. Every time she enters the Slytherin common room, she practices looking through the illusion into the secret room.

Over the weekend, Tracey stays in the castle while everyone else goes to the Quidditch match, saying she feels a bit ill. While everyone is gone, she curls up in the brocade armchair and starts the next chapter of the Occlumency book.

> In order to learn the art of Occlumency, you must first build mastery over your mind. It is only through this mastery that you can organize your mind and make it impossible to infiltrate. This mastery may come at different paces for different learners, depending on what the natural state of their mind is.

The book explains that to build mastery, Tracey should practice clearing her mind.

> As you learn to clear your mind, focus not on restricting all thoughts, but rather on not sustaining any one thought. A still mind will come with time and practice. Notice when you see yourself beginning to think, and passively observe the thought, allowing it to fall away.
> 
> This practice is more beneficial if done frequently. Repeat this every night before sleep, as well as at least twice a week for increasing periods of time. Only when you can reliably clear your mind for the period of a full hour should you move forward.

Tracey closes the book and settles comfortably into the armchair. Her mind is buzzing with thoughts and theories that beg to be explored, but she doesn’t engage with them, just lets them pass her by. She imagines that they’re like the illusions she’s practiced looking through; if she unfocuses her mind and glances past them, they will disappear.

When everyone comes back from the Quidditch match, it’s with the news that some sort of cursed Bludger was after Potter the entire game, that it broke his arm, and yet he still caught the Snitch. Marcus Flint starts giving Draco a very public dressing-down for not being able to catch the Snitch faster than someone with a broken arm, and Tracey slips away to bed. That night, she practices clearing her mind until she drifts off to sleep. 

Monday morning, the entire castle is buzzing about how a Gryffindor first year by the name of Colin Creevey is in the hospital wing. “Stiff as a board, I heard!” Draco says around a mouthful of toast. The news seems to have perked him up, although Tracey notices he’s pointedly not looking in Flint’s direction.

There’s a cold snap late the following week. When Tracey walks out to the greenhouses, hoarfrost coats the grounds in a thin, crackling layer, and a rim of white ice is clinging to the shore of the Great Lake.

During her free period at the greenhouses, Wayne looks pale and drawn, and Miranda doesn’t talk as much as she usually does. Even Professor Sprout looks greyer than she used to. On the walk back, it starts to hail. Despite the extra-thick wool cloak Tracey is wearing, she can still feel the hard, painful impact of the pebbles of ice. 

In the halls, Tracey sees a Hufflepuff lob a piece of hail at Potter, although it misses by a long shot and she doesn’t think Potter notices. Everyone seems on edge. The arguments in the common room have turned to a sort of fraught, icy tension. Although Slytherin probably looks normal to outsiders, any sense of intrahouse community has splintered, and the usual quiet banter and bustle of the common room has been replaced by a stillness that feels like the sibilant quiet as a lit fuse burns down. 

Tracey definitely feels its effects. Her nightmares grow more frequent. She dreams of a hissing creature living in the walls, a venomous serpent coiled around Draco’s pale arm, something banging against her ribs and trying to clamber out. Although the nightmares are not so frequent that the lack of sleep impairs her schoolwork, it’s still disturbing and difficult. 

In the introductory chapter, the author said that Occlumency could often help with nightmares. Every night before bed, Tracey clears her mind. She’s been getting better and better at clearing her mind— she goes to sleep more quickly every night, and when she practices in the day, she’s able to keep her mind clear for longer and longer periods of time. But no matter how calm her waking self is, she doesn’t seem to be able to help her dreaming self. The best she can do is quickly calm herself down after nightmares so she can go right back to sleep. 

Even the nights she doesn’t have nightmares, Tracey is sometimes woken by Lily crying out in her sleep. Lily is having nightmares as well, but unlike Tracey, who sleeps silently no matter how terrible the things her dreaming mind conjures, Lily often makes noise. Daphne gets more and more worried as time passes, and she constantly tries to persuade Lily to talk Professor Snape or Madam Pomfrey, but Lily refuses. 

So Daphne has instead decided to cure Lily herself. Recently she mail-ordered special tea specially formulated to help prevent nightmares, which ended up giving Lily stomach aches. She’s now talking about trying a different blend which she hopes won’t upset Lily’s stomach.. 

Tracey tries a few sips of Lily’s tea, feigning curiosity at the taste, and since she says she likes it, Lily ends up giving the whole box to her after she’s done with it. Tracey drinks a cup every night before bed for two weeks, and although she likes the taste, her nightmares continue. 

In the meantime, Daphne has been financing the entire Hogwarts nightmare-prevention market all on her own. She buys Lily amulets and crystals, bags of scented herbs and woven dream-catchers, ointments and pastes, tinctures and talismans. It feels like every few days she’s telling Lily that she just bargained her way into obtaining this new bit or bob from an upper year who says it’s very reputable, or mail-ordered it from a shop in Diagon Alley, or bought it secondhand from a third-year who got it from Hogsmeade.

As November turns to December, the hoarfrost turns to proper, if rather icy, snow. Holly and mistletoe begin to spring up all around the castle. With every passing day that there isn’t an attack, Slytherin house unwinds incrementally. By the second week of December, people are playing quiet games of wizard chess and roasting marshmallows in the common room instead of just doing their work in stony silence.

Lily’s nightmares have settled down as well, and Daphne has stopped buying dubious knick-knacks. Tracey’s nightmares haven’t stopped, but with Lily no longer waking her, and her ability to go back to sleep only minutes after waking from a nightmare, she’s managing fine. 

Even if Tracey’s Occlumency won’t fix her nightmares, it seems to be progressing brilliantly. Now, she can keep her mind clear for almost forty minutes at a time. To her, keeping a clear mind feels like floating underwater, the outside world muffled and blurred. Thoughts will come in like currents that try to tug her away, but Tracey simply smooths the water into stillness each time they do. 

Meanwhile, Professor Lockhart announces he is starting a Dueling Club. Tracey doesn’t join, but she hears all about how Potter ordered a snake to kill Finch-Fletchley. All of the tension from before is back with a vengeance, and rumors are rushing around the castle about how Potter must be the Heir. 

The very next day, there’s another attack. Justin Finch-Fletchley and Nearly Headless Nick are petrified. Tracey spots Wayne at the table during dinner; he looks pale and deeply disturbed. The entire castle is burbling like a cauldron about to overflow. It’s not surprising, considering the damning evidence leading most of the castle to believe Potter is the Heir, and the revelation that the Heir is powerful enough to petrify a ghost. 

The common room that night is filled with loud discussion. The prefects are trying their best to keep things calm, but they’re having a very difficult job of it. There’s so much going on, and they can’t be everywhere at once; it seems like the entire common room is stuffed with arguing upper years. It’s to the point where Tracey can’t get to her dorm, so she just settles into an armchair to wait things out. 

“I’m just saying! Nearly Headless Nick may be a ghost, but he’s also a pureblood. Maybe it was just an accident, but that’s hardly better! Whoever the Heir is, he’s a danger to everyone, and we have to condemn him!” 

“ _Condemn_ him? Even if I were to agree with your premise, that’s just reckless. We’re not _Gryffindors_ here.” 

“What I’m curious about,” a smooth, low voice interrupts, “Is why you care about the affairs of purebloods at all, Sorsen, considering you yourself are a halfblood.” 

Tracey takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, settling deeper into her armchair. In her mind, she’s running over her old prayer.

“You know, Professor McGonagall had some corrections to make on the latest essay I turned in.” The owner of the low voice turns eyes like black glass to an upper year who must be Sorsen. “Any comments you’d like to make to that?” 

“No,” Sorsen replies. There’s an odd little smirk clinging to his lips. 

“You know,” The low-voiced upper year continues, “When a tree is pruned, _all_ of the tainted branches are cut off, not just the dead ones.” 

“You know,” Sorsen says with that little smirk, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” He says something quietly, quietly enough that Tracey can’t hear it. Whatever it is, it makes the other upper year go almost white. She can almost see him gathering his bravado back around him like a coat.

“Tread carefully, halfblood. You’re threatening my honor.” He rests his fingers on his wand holster in clear warning. 

Sorsen raises one eyebrow and flicks his wrist. He raises his wand— the other draws his own even faster— blood spurts from Sorsen’s chest. 

“Accio… photos-” Sorsen gasps out as he collapses to the floor. Blood is spilling from between his fingers. A prefect falls to her knees beside him and waves her wand in a brisk motion that sends a soft chime ringing through the room. 

“What spell did you use?” She asks the upper year sharply. 

“Lapsu a cultro inter costis,” He replies. His face is pale and he’s swaying slightly on his feet. 

The prefect bends over Sorsen, lips moving in an endless tumble as she sets to work. The other upper year collapses into the armchair next to Tracey, who tries to blend in with the brocade. 

Tracey glances up and sees Professor Snape sweeping through the silent crowd, a grim look set on his face. He waves his wand over Sorsen and nods curtly to the prefect. “He is stable.” 

He turns to the upper year. “Come,” he says. The upper year stumbles unsteadily to his feet and wobbles towards Professor Snape. The crowd parts around him, grim looks on their pale faces and eyes gleaming like wet river stones as he heads towards what might as well be his execution.


	9. Late December 1992- January 1993

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tracey works on setting up proper Occlumency protections, and pretty quickly runs into issues.

The common room once more becomes icy and silent. Tracey doesn’t spot either Sorsen or the upper year, and no one talks about the incident. Nightmares continue to torment Lily, until she finally ends up going home early for Christmas. Tracey focuses on keeping her mind clear all the time. She just has to keep a handle on things until she gets home for Christmas. 

Christmas finally arrives, and Tracey heads home. She’s glad to see her mother, but is gladder, she’s ashamed to admit, that her mother doesn’t know as much about the wizarding world as she thinks she does. Tracey is careful to act perfectly normal so her mother stays oblivious. In her free time, she practices clearing her mind. 

By the end of the first week of break, Tracey can keep her mind clear for more than an hour without issue, so she reads further in the book.

> Now that you have mastered control over your mind, you must begin organizing it. The first step is to see what your mind is already like. As you focused on clearing your mind, you may have gained hints of what shape your mind takes most naturally. You may have imagined unwelcome thoughts being concealed by mist, for instance; or, you may have pictured dusting the “cobwebs” of unwelcome thoughts from the corners of your home.
> 
> In order to clearly picture your mindscape, you must open yourself to your magic. Address your magic, asking for aid. Then, begin clearing your mind. This time, instead of dismissing all thoughts, instead dismiss all those that your magic does not guide you to.

Tracey sets the book aside. She knows most spells are in Latin, so she uses her halting memories of lessons at St. Gummarus to translate her sentiments into Latin. 

“Ego appreciate vos,” she speaks. “Scio te habitet in me. Adiuva me.” 

The words feel unnatural and stiff on her lips. Tracey shakes her head; it’s her magic, shouldn’t it be able to speak her native tongue?

“I appreciate you, magic,” she tries again. “I know that you dwell within me. Help me.”

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She dismisses her thoughts of how much her Latin has deteriorated, of how odd her mother will think she if she finds her here like this, of how her feet are cold. She can feel a soft current, carrying her along. The farther it carries her, the more muffled and blurred the sensations of the world become. Eventually, though, the current seems to disappear, so she opens her eyes fully to look for it.

She is underwater. Far above her, a slick, impenetrable layer of ice protects her from the outside world. Tracey knows that anyone looking from above will only see themselves reflected back in the mirror-like ice. Like Narcissus falling in love with his own reflection, they will be enchanted by their love of their own image and never dig beneath the surface. Below her, the depths of her thoughts stretch out, fading into endless black void. Although the water is cold and dark, she doesn’t shiver or shake. She is completely in control here. 

For a long time, she floats there, protected and at peace. At last, she finds her way back to the world, feeling for the current and then following where it leads once more.

> Depending on what kind of mindscape you have, you may have to devise some sort of way to protect yourself. Although heavy physical barriers may seem best at first, the best protection is one of deception. Physical barriers can be broken, but a protection that cannot be detected cannot be destroyed. 
> 
> You must also organize your mind. Find a way to represent your thoughts and memories, and arrange them so that even if someone does manage to intrude into your mind, they do not find your most valuable memories first. It must also be arranged such that it makes sense to you, and all your memories and thoughts are still easily available if needed

Tracey already has a barrier: the reflective ice atop the surface. As break progresses, she spends her time organizing her thoughts and memories.

Tracey doesn’t give any thoughts or memories forms, as in the uniform blackness of her lake they will be immediately noticeable. Instead, she gives each one a different density. Some, like musings about what color suits her best, or memories of time spent in the library with Theo, float just below the surface. Others, like the memory of Sorsen being sliced open, are a little bit farther down. Thoughts of her mother and home life she lets sink deep down into the dark. 

The thoughts and memories above help conceal the thoughts and memories below, just like how the layers of water at the top of the Black Lake shroud the creatures at the bottom. Tracey also builds gentle currents which twist into eddies just below the surface. 

Her eddies spin round and round in circles of thoughts, seemingly always in motion but never coming to a point. It’s the kind of thought that Tracey has to work not to get caught in herself, sometimes, so she’s glad to weaponize it against any unwanted invaders. 

At the end of Christmas break, Tracey somewhat reluctantly returns to Hogwarts. By now she’s pretty confident in her mindscape. She likes the overall structure of it; the only problem is that sometimes the water below the ice will grow turbulent, pressing up against it and threatening to fracture it. She wishes she had a bit more time to smooth out her waters before returning to Hogwarts, but she supposes that it is what it is. 

Everyone at Hogwarts is talking about how Potter’s muggleborn friend got attacked over break, and is stuck in the hospital wing now. Draco says he doesn’t think she actually got attacked by the Heir, but also that he sure hopes he’s wrong. Pansy gloats for a while, but settles down eventually and seems to forget about it. 

This attack particularly bothers Tracey, however. It’s not that she likes Granger. Granger thinks that she knows everything, and she’s awfully biased against Slytherins. She’s swotty, rude and irritating, and very easy to hate. But perhaps that’s part of it. Practically everyone in Slytherin hated her and wanted her petrified. Honoria Seventhson is just as rude. She thinks that everyone should act just as old-fashioned as her, and she’s quite biased against Gryffindors. But no one has suggested Honoria should get petrified.

Tracey’s nightmares start to increase once more. She dreams of Granger lying stiff in the Hospital Wing, another girl in the same state in the bed next to her. In her dreams, the hissing monster in the walls stalks her. Sometimes it hides in the bodies of her fellow Slytherins. 

One morning she wakes up shivering and shaking. She can’t stop panting out hoarse, shallow little breaths. She tries to guide her breaths, but she can’t. They whoosh in and out of her, loud and ragged. She starts to feel dizzy from the lack of air, and her hands are tingling. She closes her eyes and tries to Occlude.

Her mindscape is a mess. She struggles up through choppy water and eddies that try to tug her into spirals of panic. Above her, what had previously been a smooth, perfect sheet of ice is a set of cracked floes floating atop the turbulent water. 

Tracey comes back to herself. She’s still not breathing normally, and at this rate, she’s going to wake up the others. She stumbles into the common room, feeling scared and out-of-control.

Luckily, the common room is uninhabited but for the Bloody Baron, who’s staring moodily out into the Lake. He hears her ragged breaths and turns. Tracey can hardly see his expression through her blurry eyes, but she shrinks away, ashamed. 

“I’m— sorry—” she manages. 

The Bloody Baron looks solemnly down at her, and for a long moment Tracey thinks he will turn away in disgust. Finally he rasps, “Come.” 

Tracey follows him to the glass wall. She presses her fingers to its cold, slick surface, and slowly she can feel herself coming back to herself. She wishes her ice shell looked just as solid as the wall does. 

“Tell me,” The Bloody Baron intones, and Tracey can feel the whole unhappy tale spilling out. Tracey doesn’t like how out-of-control the vomit-like flow of words makes her feel, but she has to admit, standing there with her chest heaving and all of her secrets out in the open air, she feels a lot better.

“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I should have cleared my mind more...” 

“No,” the Bloody Baron states in his rattling voice. “No matter how perfect your Occlumency, emotion must go somewhere. You must choose an outlet, or your emotion will choose an outlet for you.” 

“But—” Tracey protests.

“No,” the Baron answers with harsh finality. 

Tracey stares at him, tears glistening in her eyes.

The Bloody Baron sighs, making a noise like the wind through the Forbidden Forest. His ghostly fingers twitch towards the silvery blood down his front. “I know from experience,” comes his hoarse, almost inaudible whisper.

No one, not even the oldest Slytherins, know the Bloody Baron’s story. He’s well known for refusing to even entertain questions about it. Tracey knows he must be deadly serious to allude to it. Finally, Tracey nods. “You’re right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I've been neglecting this story. I've had a lot going on what with reworking tcf, and then there's aw(owcfw)... which I'm also behind schedule for... *winces* Plus, I have a big honking fic idea that's been sucking up like 90% of my attention... And of course there's been final projects for school. Next week is my last week of school, so hopefully I'll be able to be more consistent soon. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, and that all of you and your families are well.


	10. January 1993– March 1993

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miranda has a heart-to-heart with her allies.

The Bloody Baron explains that if she isn’t careful, her mindscape will ice back over again, and when her emotions once again collect beyond her capability to contain them, the ice will once again break, throwing her mindscape into chaos. To prevent this, she needs an outlet for her emotions, and to keep her mindscape from icing over. When Tracey asks what outlet she should use, the Baron tells her that only she can answer that question. 

Tracey spends a long time thinking about it. Should she let down her Occlumency shields? Not clear her mind for one week in each month? But then she wouldn’t be able to conceal her emotions from her fellow Slytherins…

In the meantime, Hermione Granger returns to class. It turns out she just had some sort of magical mishap over break, and wasn’t attacked at all. Tracey conceals her relief, and within two weeks she’s back to comfortably hating the swotty Gryffindor. 

The weather starts to warm up. Dim sunlight begins creeping in the windows, and it stops snowing all the time. Every night as she clears her mind, Tracey goes through the uncomfortable and scary process of breaking up the ice on the surface of her mindscape. If she had a smooth sheet of ice, she would have the defense of an unnoticeable mirror. Similarly, if she had no ice at all, the naked surface of the water would make a fine mirror. Fractured ice makes a fractured, imperfect mirror, however, and she can’t seem to get it to melt. 

On Valentine’s Day Professor Lockhart arranges a big celebration to raise morale. It does raise Tracey’s morale, but not, she thinks, in the way that Lockhart intended. There’s just something so hilarious about watching hairy dwarfs wearing golden wings determinedly fighting to reach their (often unwilling) targets. Likely it would be less amusing if Tracey were one of the targets and not Potter, but her cordial streak can only run so far. 

In the greenhouses that day, Wayne gives both Miranda and Tracey a small box of homemade fudge. It’s bitter and rich, and just the perfect texture. Miranda gets a smear of chocolate on her chin, making Wayne laugh. Tracey laughs too. She never thought she’d end up appreciating them the way she does. 

It’s that night as she’s clearing her mind that she comes to a realization. Talking to the Baron helped her, made her feel better because she was confiding in someone. That’s the outlet she needs: someone to confide in. 

It’s too bad there’s no one that fits that profile. There’s no way she can trust any of her fellow Slytherin second years—they may be friendly enough, but most of them are even more friendly with Draco, and they’ve been listening to him talking about blood traitors and filthy mudbloods and not saying a word this entire time. There’s no way she can know that they won’t turn on her once they learn the truth, or rat her out to Draco for a shred of social status. 

Nor can Tracey tell Professor Snape. Even though he’s her head of house, he’s rather intimidating, and he’s quite cruel to the Gryffindors. Tracey doesn’t know if he hates the Gryffindors because they’re reckless, hypocritical fools, or because Gryffindors are mudbloods and blood-traitors. 

Tracey tries to think of people she knows who are friendly towards muggleborns and those who sympathize with muggleborns. She supposes there’s Dumbledore, but he’s an awfully big hypocrite, and he acts so unfairly to Slytherins. Tracey can never imagine trusting him farther than she can throw him, and she’s got arms about as strong as noodles. It’s the same deal with McGonagall; although she’s very well-known for being pro-Muggleborn, she’s also well-known for not giving Slytherins points, and for protecting Harry Potter from proper punishments, like the consequences Snape would have wrought over the tomfoolery with the enchanted car from just a few months ago.

She supposes there’s her mother. Her mother is very fair and even-handed, and as a muggle herself, wouldn’t be prejudiced against them. But if her mother has even the slightest inkling that Tracey is in any danger at Hogwarts, she’ll pull her out and send her off to some dreary muggle boarding school that’s even worse than St. Gummarus’ was. 

Tracey is just wondering if maybe confiding in a library cat or writing in a diary (although she’d have to take extensive measures to make sure no one could ever read it) would be enough, when the (in hindsight) very obvious answer hits her squarely in the face.

Miranda already knows that Tracey is a muggleborn, so that’s the big thing out of the way. Anyhow Tracey’s got dirt on Miranda so she can trust her to not spread any of Tracey’s secrets out of sheer self-preservation at the very least. Plus, despite Miranda’s kleptomania, she’s actually very sweet and generous. 

Wayne didn’t tell anyone about Miranda cutting the horn off the unicorn back in first year, although he clearly didn’t approve. Plus, Wayne _likes_ muggleborns, so he probably wouldn’t rat her out to the Slytherins, whom he doesn’t particularly like anyways.

Tracey feels an odd sense of relief and excitement at the thought of opening up to them. Luckily, she has an Herbology free period that day, so she can get it done soon. 

Professor Sprout tells Tracey that today they’ll be building a habitat for a rare American hart’s-tongue fern a friend gave her. 

“We’ll wait for the others before potting it, but you can help me add a drainage system to its pot,” Professor Sprout tells her kindly. She explains a spell to add round holes to the bottom of the pot.

Wayne enters the greenhouse, Miranda a few steps behind. “Why’s the pot made of rock this time?” Miranda asks at once. 

“It’s limestone,” Professor Sprout explains. “American hart’s-tongue fern likes to grow around limestone. Its growing environment is part of what gives the American hart’s-tongue fern its more unique properties.” 

“And what properties are those?” Miranda asks eagerly.

Professor Sprout chuckles, and rubs one of the waxy, ruffled leaves. “It’s one of the most important ingredients in Veritaserum.” 

They fill the pot with magnesium-rich soil and carefully settle the plant in. Throughout the entire repotting process, Tracey is distracted, thinking of what she’s going to do. Finally, while Professor Sprout is putting the fern in its new home, she turns to Wayne. She opens her mouth— but she can’t say a word. Finally, she blurts out, “Do you know anything about the term ‘mudblood’?”

“It’s a really nasty word,” Wayne says darkly. “It means that the person who says it thinks you’re subhuman, pretty much. M— someone once said that it’s like if, like, a cow gave birth to a person. I mean, sure, they look like a person, but can you really be certain?” He laughs without a shred of humor. 

“Why do you ask?” Miranda asks Tracey. She’s got an almost hopeful look on her face.

“Because I’m a muggleborn,” Tracey says softly. There’s a feeling inside of her, like some painful zit has been popped. “And I want to know what Draco really means when he says that.” Wayne stares at her, eyes wide and mouth open slightly. 

“B-but you’re a Slytherin,” he finally stutters. 

Tracey nods. 

“That must be really difficult,” Wayne says at last. His brow is furrowed, and he looks worried.

Tracey shrugs. “Sometimes.” 

“You can always talk to us about it,” Miranda says. She’s beaming. 

Distantly, Tracey can hear a bell ringing. Free period has ended. 

Wayne straightens and squeezes her shoulder; Tracey is surprised by how strong he is. “Tell me if you need anything,” he tells her. His gaze is intense. His eyes, normally an unassuming dark brown, look more like black coffee to Tracey now. “ _Anything_.” 

“We’d better get to class,” Miranda says. 

As Tracey runs through the corridors, she’s surprised to find her heart light in her chest. That night, when she checks in on her mindscape, she sees that a warm rain is falling on the lake, softening the ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FAQ:
> 
> Q: Am I working on this?
> 
> A: No. one of my friends is reading this fic, and I decided to tell her what happens bc I had it all plotted out. When doing this, I realized I had a backlog of about ~18k of unpublished work. This was all written ages ago. 
> 
> Q: Why do you hop from work to work so much? 
> 
> A: Because I have a short attention span.


	11. March 1993– September 1993

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second year wraps up.

As the ice in Tracey’s mindscape melts, so does the ice atop the Great Lake. The snow around the castle turns to muddy puddles, and the sun begins to shine cheerily over the grounds. By now it’s been nearly four months since the last attack, and a lot of the castle seems to think that, whatever it is that happened, it’s over now. Tracey is honestly a little bit miffed; all that work learning Occlumency, and just as she masters it, her need for it goes away. 

It’s good being able to confide in Wayne and Miranda. She didn’t realize how much she missed being able to talk about her mother and life at home and muggle culture. Every night when Tracey checks in on her mindscape, she sees that the ice is a little thinner, until one day she checks in and there’s only the smooth, shining surface of her lake, looking for all the world like a silvered mirror. 

Things are back to normal in the Slytherin common room. Lily has regained color and weight, and Draco has stopped talking about mudbloods and blood-traitors so much. The end of the year creeps up, and it gets to be time to choose their electives for third year.

Miranda reads up thoroughly on each of the electives and then explains the differences to Wayne and Tracey. Personally, she says, she’s going to take Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. She’s decided to take only two, as both those classes are known to be rather difficult subjects.

Within Slytherin, a lot of the more academic students are testing into upper-level Ancient Runes. It turns out that most purebloods are expected to learn runes as children. Tutoring for the other electives is much rarer, however. 

Tracey decides to take three electives: Care of Magical Creatures, Alchemy, and Divination. Alchemy is known to be a rather difficult elective, and Snape has advised that only those skilled in both Potions and Transfiguration take it. Care of Magical Creatures and Divination are both widely considered to be easy classes, so Tracey’s not worried.

As exams approach, Tracey begins to spend more of her free time studying. She especially focuses on the subjects she did badly on last year. Although she hates studying Astronomy and History of Magic, she starts taking out old History of Magic textbooks from the library, and even asking Miranda for help with Astronomy.

For a little while, life is actually quite pleasant. There haven’t been attacks for ages, Tracey thinks she’s actually got a handle on things for end of the year exams, and she’s really enjoying her friendship with Miranda and Wayne. 

About a week into May, everything falls apart. Tracey is in the common room studying with Theo when a rush of students burst in. Apparently, the Quidditch match got cancelled by Professor McGonagall and no one knows why. 

“Maybe Professor McGonagall realized that the Gryffindor Quidditch team would end up losing to the Hufflepuffs and decided to spare herself the embarrassment,” Adrian Pucey jokes. 

Some people laugh, but there’s underlying tension. Tracey knows that most people are wondering if it’s another attack. 

Professor Snape sweeps in only a few minutes later and announces that there’s been a double attack. This time, the Heir really has put Granger in the hospital wing, along with a Ravenclaw prefect. He informs them of the new curfew and restrictions and then sweeps back out without giving them any time for questions. 

None of the Slytherins seem to be taking the new restrictions seriously, and why would they? _They’ve_ got nothing to fear. Tracey can hear a delighted Draco gloating to Vince, Greg and Pansy from the other side of the room.

The next morning, the entire school is talking about how the Heir was found. Apparently, it’s the groundskeeper, Hagrid. Dumbledore was removed the night before, and now Professor McGonagall is Acting Headmistress. It feels as though the world has turned upside-down overnight, and to be honest, Tracey is more than a bit scared.

It’s not that Tracey has suddenly started liking Dumbledore. She still thinks he’s biased and untrustworthy, and that the way he handles Hogwarts can be truly irresponsible. But she also knows that he’s got quite a bit of political power, and he’s firmly on the pro-Muggleborn side of things. So she’s not exactly happy that he’s gone, either.

Some of the other students seem to think the entire thing’s over with. They truly believe that Hagrid is the Heir, and they’re content to put this whole mess behind them and just focus on the upcoming exams. Miranda, for her part, says that those people have their heads buried so far into the sand that they’re never going to get it all out of their ears. Tracey doesn’t think she would phrase it like that, but she agrees. 

If Hagrid really were the Heir, there wouldn’t be any danger, so they wouldn’t have to be escorted by a professor everywhere they go. It’s clear to her that sending Hagrid to Azkaban is a very clumsy attempt by the Minister to appease the anxious public. Most of Slytherin seems to agree, although it’s more on the basis that Hagrid isn’t intelligent enough to be the Heir. 

“There’s no way the Heir of Slytherin is a half-breed oaf,” Draco sneers.

The fact that Hagrid is being put away as the Heir suggests that the Ministry has mostly given up on the real Heir ever being caught. There are whispers that the school will get shut down soon, and so Tracey starts doing research on other wizarding schools that she and Wayne and Miranda might be able to transfer to. The research is slow, and the results are not very promising. 

Drumstrang only accepts Dark wizards and witches, a tidbit which makes Wayne shudder. Beauxbatons’ classes are all in French; the only one in the trio who knows a word of French is Tracey, and that was from all the way back at St. Gummarus’. Koldovstoretz is worse, as it only accepts fluent _Russian_ speakers. The same issue comes up with almost all of the other schools—they’d have to speak Portuguese to go to Castelobruxo, Japanese to go to Mahoutokoro, Mandarin to go to the Beijing Academy of Shamenry. 

There are some schools in North America, but several of them seem rather exclusive, and many of the schools require that their pupils live within a certain boundary of the school. Tracey supposes they could move to America, but she doubts her mother would be willing to do it. When she suggests the idea to the others, Wayne looks pale and worried at the thought. Ultimately, Tracey just wants Hogwarts to stay open. 

None of the other Slytherins seem worried about it. Tracey supposes that if you’ve got the weight of a name listed in the Sacred Twenty-Eight or a bunch of family connections, it’s easy to get in wherever you like. And, even if they can’t get into a school somewhere, they can always just ask a relative to teach them. It’s not like it is for muggleborns, where if they can’t go to school to learn magic, they’ll never see a spell again.

It’s odd. Ever since Granger got put into the Hospital Wing, Potter and Weasley have been glaring at every single Slytherin who dares to so much as sneeze in their general direction. Sometimes she wonders what they would think of her if they knew who, and what, she was. Would they respect and advocate for her like they do for Granger, because Tracey’s a muggleborn? Or would they hate her just like they hate all of the other Slytherins?

“What do you think the Gryffindors would think if they knew?” Tracey blurts out during one Herbology free period. “That I’m a muggleborn, I mean? Would they still hate me for being a Slytherin?” 

Next to her, Wayne flushes a bit. Over time, his view on Slytherins has softened slightly. 

Miranda’s brow wrinkles, and she shrugs. “I don’t know. I… I don’t think anyone realizes there can be muggleborn Slytherins.” 

Tracey frowns, thinking of the old muggle lamp in the secret room the Baron showed her. “I can’t have been the first. That would be absurd.” 

Miranda shrugs. 

Despite everything, time marches on, and exams grow closer with every passing day. Tracey studies with Theo, and tries to review with Wayne and Miranda, although they don’t seem to see a point to it. 

Only a few days before exams, the Mandrakes are ready for cutting. Professor McGonagall seems to assume that as soon as the victims are back to their usual states, the Heir will be caught at once, but things fall apart when there’s yet another attack. The school is certain to close. The only thing Tracey can think of to do is to try her best to persuade her mother to move to America, and to do the same thing with Wayne and Miranda. 

There’s an odd, almost festive mood among some of the Slytherins as everybody packs their things that night. Draco is talking cheerily about his plans to transfer to Durmstrang, and among many of the others there seems to be a general sense that the school will reopen eventually, just without all those pesky mudbloods and blood-traitors.

Tracey reluctantly packs her own things and spends one last night curled up in her Slytherin green bed sheets. 

It’s as if there’s some sort of miracle. Somehow Potter—who explodes almost as many cauldrons as Longbottom—and Weasley—who is always faffing around instead of doing work—found the Chamber of Secrets, killed the Basilisk within, and got Dumbledore reinstated, all in one night.

Tracey finds herself begrudgingly respecting Potter and Weasley. Without their actions, she likely wouldn’t be able to so much as wave a wand. She would be completely cut off from the magical world. 

There’s a huge school feast, and exams are cancelled. Potter and Weasley rack up an even more outrageous amount of points than last year and Gryffindor wins the house cup again. Tracey groans and moans about it along with the rest of Slytherin, but secretly she doesn’t mind. Potter killed a Basilisk, after all. She thinks that this time around, Gryffindor actually deserves the win. 

Tracey returns home that summer with far better grace than she did the previous one. This time, she’s so glad that she’s home safe and un-Petrified, and that she’ll be able to go back to Hogwarts again next year, that she applies herself quite well to her summer work. She also starts taking French again, just in case.

Tracey comes back to Hogwarts the following September with a somewhat disenchanted hope for a normal, calm school year.


	12. September 1st 1993– end of first period, September 2nd 1993

Smoke drifts overhead, carrying a spicy, pleasant smell with it. Below, the platform is packed with wizards and witches saying goodbye to their children. Tracey weaves her way through the crowd and slips easily onto the train. 

It doesn’t take long to find the compartment containing the Slytherins of her year. She slides in beside Daphne, who’s chatting eagerly with the other girls about Hogsmeade. Blaise is stretched out on one of the seats taking a nap. Across from him, Theo is squished between the window and Greg, trying with little success to read his book. Judging by the way he’s looking at Blaise, he’s more preoccupied plotting revenge than anything else. 

Tracey sits quietly, content to watch the landscape change. First there are the tall, narrow London townhouses, which slowly flatten into the wider country houses of the outlying districts. The gardens of these country houses swell, developing larger and larger plots of pasture until they’re outright farmland. Cows stare dumbly at the passing Hogwarts Express from their fields, and Tracey wonders idly at the fact that farm animals can see the Hogwarts Express when the farmers themselves can’t.

She remembers that Draco would classify both farmer and farm animal the same, and that rather takes the appeal out of it. Shaking the thought aside, Tracey turns back to the window. Now the neatly segmented parcels of farmland are unraveling into vague stretches of agrestal, half-tended land. Then even the semblance of borders disappear and there are only long unbroken ripples of landscape billowing by. 

Even though Tracey’s seen it four times before, it’s still a fascinating process, and she’s not sure that she’ll ever get tired of it. To her, it seems a bit like Transfiguration.

It begins to rain, and Tracey’s view of the scenery grows bleary and ill-defined. She turns reluctantly back to the conversation. The others are theorizing who the newest Defense teacher will be. 

Outside, the rain grows harder, until it’s pounding against the walls of the train like greedy fingers trying to prod their way in. The view outside the windows is pitch black, and the lanterns along the corridors have lit themselves, something Tracey didn’t realize they could do. Pansy laughs and suggests that it’s the perfect opportunity to tell some good scary stories. 

The train is slowing down, even though they should still be hours away from Hogwarts. Suddenly they stop with a dull thunk and all the lights along the corridors wink out. A feeling of cold slips into the compartment, as if the train’s walls have ceased to keep out the bite of the wind and the anger of the storm. Tracey can sense the top of her mindscape crusting over with ice, and, for some reason, she recalls the sound Sorsen made when he got hit with the curse.

After a few long minutes of sitting silently in the dark, the train slowly begins to chug forward again, and everybody lets out a sigh of relief. The lanterns flicker back on one by one, and warmth creeps back into the compartment. 

“We must have broken down,” Honoria says. She sounds a bit as though she’s trying to reassure herself. 

“Probably Potter’s fault,” Pansy says a bit shakily, and the pent-up tension pours out of them all in a bout of belly-shaking laughter.

Draco heads out, Greg and Vince falling in to flank him, in order to figure out what happened. A few minutes later he comes back, a gleeful look on his face. “It was Dementors,” he explains importantly, tumbling back into his seat. “They thought Sirius Black might be on the train, so they were doing a search. And would you believe it, Potter _fainted_!” 

Outside, the rain is as hard as hail, and twice as wet. They all hurry eagerly into the coaches and somewhat bad-naturedly endure the bumpy, damp ride up to the castle. Luckily, the hot food that’s served at the Welcoming Feast is enough to chase all the cold and damp out of their bones. They’ve got a nice good stock of new first year Slytherins, and a new Defense Against the Dark Professor, who only looks shabby and not idiotic. The only downside is that Hagrid has been announced as the new Care of Magical Creatures professor, but even that isn’t enough to ruin the rest of the night. 

The next morning, the rainstorm of the previous day has lightened to a soft drizzle. Draco is imitating Potter’s fainting fit by swooning girlishly over his eggs. The Slytherins are still chuckling among themselves when the new timetables get passed out. 

It turns out that no one else from Slytherin has Divination with Tracey. An Arithmancy class and Tracey’s Divination class are in the same time slot, and most of the Slytherins have that Arithmancy class. Tracey knew that only a few other Slytherins in her year were taking Divination, and there was a small chance she would get a class without them, but she still somehow assumed she wouldn’t end up entirely alone. 

Tracey’s never been to the Divination classroom, so she leaves extra early to allot plenty of time to finding it. She heads northwards until she finds a spiral staircase made out of heavy, old stones. Tracey hazards a guess that she’s found the North Tower, and begins the long climb up. 

There’s a small landing with two girls standing close together, talking in low, interested voices. They glance briefly at Tracey, then turn away and return to their conversation. 

It’s been ages since Tracey’s had to make connections with anyone not in Slytherin, but with no Slytherins in the class, it’s clear to Tracey she’ll need to make _some_ sort of connection. These girls seem as good as any; they may be Gryffindors, but at least they didn’t glare just because of her tie. 

“I heard that Professor Trelawney predicted the winner of the last Quidditch Cup,” one of them is saying. She has her hair bound in a sleek black plait with a pink ribbon tying it off at the end.

“Do you think she could predict if anyone’ll take me to Hogsmeade?” The other suggests eagerly. She twists a blonde curl around her finger and lets out a little squeal at the thought. 

“Maybe,” the first muses. “I suppose that’s what we’re going to learn, isn’t it? I wonder, would that use a crystal ball? Or maybe palmistry...”

“Tea leaves,” Tracey says, letting it slip past her lips as if she’d spoken involuntarily. The two look at her, startled, and she lets a flush rise to her face. “I’m— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.” 

“No, no,” the blonde one says kindly, “What were you saying about tea leaves?” She unwinds the curl from her finger, and it bounces next to her ear. 

“I think—I mean, I definitely could be wrong—but I think she would use tea leaves,” Tracey says. “Since, uh, tea leaves are really good for divining personal things.” She turns shyly to the other girl. “I love your ribbon, by the way.” 

The girl smiles, revealing a set of pearly white teeth. “Thanks.” 

“I’m Lavender Brown, by the way,” the blonde one says. “This is Parvati Patil. And what you said makes so much sense. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re totally right.” 

“Tracey Davis,” Tracey introduces herself. 

“Do you know much about Divination?” Brown asks eagerly. 

“A little,” Tracey shrugs. “I did some research before deciding to take the class.” She lets a smile rise to her lips. “I didn’t need to do much though, because it just sounded _so_ interesting.” 

“I know, right!” Brown cries, and she’s gushing about how much she loves Divination already. 

The girls are still chattering as the rest of the class arrives in small clumps. Skimming the landing, Tracey sees that the class is almost entirely Gryffindors, with only a small cluster of Hufflepuffs as the other non-Gryffindors. Luckily, because the three girls got there so early, they ended up squished into a corner of the landing, and Tracey is hidden, even if anyone wanted to get a look at her.. 

When almost all of the class is assembled, a small ladder falls from a trapdoor above, along with a light shower of dust that makes several people cough. Potter ascends it, and the rest follow more cautiously. 

Tracey’s initial impression is that she’s entered a dense, sweet-smelling cloud. The entire room is tinted red, and pinkish smoke oozes from the slow-burning fireplace. Tracey blinks, trying to see the room itself properly. There are shelves upon shelves of trinkets, from broken egg shells to tea cups to crystal balls— underneath the cloud, it looks a bit like a junk shop. Crowded into the center of the room are about a dozen round tables, many of them already occupied.

Brown loops her arm around Tracey’s and tugs her along to a table right at the front and center. A bit stunned, Tracey allows herself to be guided along, and obediently settles into a chintz armchair across from Patil.

Professor Trelawney is a scrawny woman, with an angular face overwhelmed by her huge glasses. Her narrow wrists are almost concealed by stacks of bangles; they look as if they might slide off any moment, and are only just held back by her bony hands. With every step, she makes a dozen soft chiming noises as her bangles and beads and bells all fall against each other. 

She settles into a winged armchair at the front of the class, crossing her legs delicately at the ankle, and begins her introduction. It starts with a warning that Divination will be a difficult subject, one that requires a special gift for the Sight. This only makes Patil sit up straighter; she whispers to the other two that she did a quiz in _Witch Weekly_ to see what kind of special powers she might have, and it said she might have the Sight. 

Professor Trelawney continues her introduction, explaining the various methods of divination they will be learning. Her introduction is dotted with predictions: that it will rain on Tuesday and thus they must certainly bring their umbrellas, that Seamus Finnigan had better study hard to avoid failing the pop quiz that’s coming up in one of his classes, and that something Lavender dreads will happen on the sixteenth of October. This particular pronouncement makes Lavender tremble so hard that she drops the wooden box Professor Trelawney had asked her to fetch. 

“It’s quite alright, dear,” Professor Trelawney tells her airily. “It contains nothing breakable, only tea.” She opens up the wooden box, revealing a selection of loose leaf teas. “Each of you may pick a favored blend. In the future, I encourage all of you to bring your own teas.” 

Tracey picks an Earl Grey blend with some lavender notes in it, Brown picks Darjeeling, and Patil picks out a simple black tea. She says that next time, she’ll bring everything she needs to make masala chai. 

“Personally, I find using Conjured water in my tea to be very beneficial,” Professor Trelawney divulges, pulling her diaphanous shawl closer around her narrow shoulders as she tucks away the wooden box. “However, in this craft, different practices work better for different people. Thus, I have a variety of waters to choose from.” She gestures to another one of the shelves, which is packed with endless crystal decanters. 

The class gets up and clusters around the shelf, peering at the spidery cards that label them as “melted snow” or “collected rainfall”. 

“Choose the decanter that truly calls to you,” she wispily tells them as she flutters in and out of the crowd. “Which water do you connect to?” 

“This _cannot_ be sanitary,” Hermione Granger mutters, picking up a decanter of green-tinged water labeled “depths of the Black Lake.” As soon as Granger puts it down, Tracey picks it up. Granger frowns, saying, “I hope you boil that properly.” 

“Ignore her,” Brown sniffs. “She’s been making fun of Divination since before she even signed up. I’m not sure why she’s taking it at all.” 

Next, Professor Trelawney tells them to each pick a teacup.

“Open your Inner Eye and let the Sight guide you,” she instructs them. 

“How, exactly, do we open our Inner Eye?” Hermione Granger asks waspishly.

“You must open yourself to the resonances of the future. Trust your intuition and your magic,” Professor Trelawney replies breezily. Granger furrows her brow, obviously not satisfied with that answer. 

What Professor Trelawney said reminds Tracey of what she learned about Occlumency. She remembers reading that to see her mindscape, she had to open herself up to her magic. Tracey still recalls following the current of her magic, letting the world blur around her, and then, somehow, instinctually, opening her eyes— and seeing her mindscape around her. 

Tracey takes a few slow, deep breaths. Internally, she asks her magic for guidance. She lets her eyes unfocus slightly as she sweeps her hand along the shelf with the tea cups on it, and her fingers fit themselves around the curve of a handle. 

The handle seems molded to perfectly fit her hand. The actual cup is made out of almost paper-thin ceramic. The outside of the cup appears at first glance to be colored a plain white, but at a second glance it reveals itself to actually be ivory-colored, with a discreet floral pattern in sage green. The inside of the cup begins with the faintest shade of seafoam and slowly deepens into Brunswick green like the view into fathomless water. 

Tracey knows that she’s found her perfect teacup. She sits down, cradling it gently in her hands while the other students continue looking, waffling between this cup and that. Hermione Granger presses through the crowd and digs briskly through the cupboard until she finds the most practical mug in the lot. Meanwhile, Potter is choosing a garish red and gold teacup, and Weasley has found an orange teacup in almost the shade of the Chudley Cannons’ team colors.

Tracey boils the lake water and sets the Earl Grey to steeping. After it’s done steeping, she pours it into her tea cup and adds a bit of the milk and sugar Trelawney helpfully provides. There are even digestive biscuits for them to munch on as they sip their tea. At this point a lot of the students seem to forget they’re in class and assume they’re simply in a rather odd tea shop; Potter starts speculating about the next Quidditch game with Weasley, the Hufflepuffs are wondering whether one of their friends is secretly dating without telling them, and Hermione Granger, looking rather frazzled, starts working on her Arithmancy homework. 

When there are only dregs left, Tracey swills the tea around three times with her left hand and then turns the cup upside down on the saucer. The remaining tea drains slowly, forming a brownish moat around the overturned teacup. 

Tracey turns the cup back over and looks into the center curiously. At first glance, it just looks like a soggy mess. She turns away from it, letting her eyes unfocus like she would if she wanted to look through an illusion. Slowly she turns her head back towards it, and starts to see the mush resolve itself into clear shapes in her peripheral vision. 

“It looks like a horse,” Tracey says aloud. 

“A horse?” Brown flicks eagerly through the book. “It’s a symbol of power, freedom and death.”

“Wait,” Tracey says slowly, seeing the shape resolving itself even more. “It’s got—” she hesitates, uncertain, “—it’s got a beak, and I think talons for front legs.” 

“A hippogriff?” Patil asks.

Tracey nods, even though she’s never heard of a hippogriff before in her life. 

“Hippogriffs symbolize pride, war, and victory,” Brown reads out. “They also symboliz—” 

There’s a high scream, and then a tinkling sound as Longbottom drops his teacup. Professor Trelawney swoons into a nearby chair, looking as though she’s recovering from a mortal shock. Apparently, Potter has the Grim in his cup. The class dissolves into chaos, and Tracey doesn’t have another chance to try to divine anything else in her tea dregs.


	13. After first period, September 2nd 1993– second week of classes

Tracey gets a chance to try her next elective after lunch. Luckily, she won’t be alone for this one. During this period, Care of Magical Creatures and Muggle Studies classes are at the same time, and since no one in Slytherin is taking Muggle Studies, everyone’s ended up in the same class. 

Although this fact initially fills her with relief, it turns to dread when she realizes that they’ll be having it with the Gryffindors. Brown and Patil are Gryffindors, so she’ll have to interact with both them and the Slytherins at once. It’s a thought that causes some choppiness in her mindscape. 

As they walk across the grounds towards where the class will be held, Tracey reassures herself. She’ll just stick a little closer to Lily and Daphne today. Lily is so sweet, there's no way anyone could dislike her, and Daphne is very even-handed and polite. 

Draco and Potter start arguing before class has even properly started, and almost everyone else walks faster in an effort to leave them behind. The group comes quickly to the paddock, and stops equally quickly at the sight of the creatures within them. 

The creatures have a graceful, proud curve to their feathered necks and muscle definition clearly visible in their hindquarters. Keen, golden-yellow eyes are set on either side of their vicious hooked beaks. Almost as one, the class takes in a little breath at the sight. 

“Hippogriffs,” Patil says softly. Her eyes turn towards Tracey, as do Brown’s. 

“Just like Tracey predicted!” Lavender squeals. 

Granger snorts. “Coincidence,” she says airily, tossing her bushy hair over one shoulder.

“Just because you couldn’t divine a rainstorm from the first drops hitting your nose, doesn’t mean _no one_ can,” Draco drawls, making Granger flush. 

Tracey couldn’t have come up with a better way to get Parvati and Lavender on amicable terms with Draco if she’d planned it herself. She glances at the two girls. Parvati is looking at Draco, her mouth twisted oddly as though she’s not sure if she should smile or glare. Lavender, meanwhile, doesn’t seem to have noticed at all. She’s leaning on the paddock fence, a dreamy look on her face. 

“Oh, they’re so beautiful,” Lavender sighs, twisting a curl around one of her fingers. 

Just because they’re beautiful doesn’t mean the class is exactly leaping to greet them. When Hagrid asks someone to come forward, they’re all quiet, looking around as if they can compel someone else to volunteer. Luckily, Potter steps up and slowly bows, making eye contact all the while.

After a tense moment, the Hippogriff bows back, and Potter clambers up onto the Hippogriff’s back and takes a ride. Having seen Potter successfully not get killed, the rest of the class heads into the paddock. Tracey slowly approaches the stormy grey one and gives it a low bow, maintaining eye contact the entire time. Almost immediately, the Hippogriff bows back, and with a little exhale of relief, Tracey begins to stroke the Hippogriff’s feathers. 

There’s suddenly a high-pitched scream, and Tracey turns in time to see Draco curled around his bloodied arm. Tracey presses her eyes forcefully shut, her mind regurgitating the way blood spurted from Sorsen’s chest, of how he pressed his fingers uselessly to the wound like he could somehow contain all of the blood.

Hagrid scoops Draco up in his big arms and runs toward the castle. The class trails after him, Pansy Parkinson complaining loudly in a wobbling voice. Lily is crying silently, her shoulders shaking; Daphne is holding her shoulders and wiping at her cheeks with a handkerchief she pulled from some hidden pocket. 

“I was there,” Lily murmurs, sniffing furiously in a futile attempt to keep from dripping snot everywhere. “With— with—” she jerks her head sharply, and Tracey knows that she means with Sorsen. “And now it’s… it’s happening again.” She swipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Because of Hagrid. Just like before.” 

Once they reach the castle, the Slytherins and Gryffindors split paths, each heading to their dorms. The Slytherins begin talking, plotting on how to get Hagrid removed from Hogwarts. Lily sticks with the others, her tears turning to a crooked little smile as they talk about all that Draco’s father could do to Hagrid.

Draco stays in the hospital wing for most of the week. In the meantime, classes continue along mostly as normal. Tracey has another Divination class, which they again spend practicing tasseomancy. This time she sees what looks like a sort of cupboard or wardrobe. It appears to be bowed outward slightly, and it’s the oddest thing— when she looks out at it out of the very corner of her eye, it appears to _shake_. 

“I can’t find anything about wardrobes _or_ cupboards in this entire book, let alone shaking ones,” Parvati says, frowning. “Are you sure it’s not something else?” 

Tracey shrugs, biting her lip. Her intuition was that it was a wardrobe, but maybe she’s reading it wrong? She turns the cup slightly and then repeats her little ritual of letting her eyes unfocus and then slowly turning back towards the cup. 

“I can sort of see a moon here?” she ventures. She squints her eyes a little bit more, then shakes her head, shrugging. As she turns away, she sees movement out of the corner of her eye and comes to a stop. The crescent moon she saw is growing, shifting rapidly from a crescent into a quarter to a waxing gibbous to finally a full moon. She blinks, and when her eyes refocus, she can only see dregs.

The mystery of what, exactly, it was that Tracey saw is solved later that week, when they go to their first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson. As soon as Professor Lupin walks in, he announces that it will be a practical lesson. Tracey sees Lily shiver slightly at the words, no doubt thinking of Lockhart’s disaster of a practical last year. 

They troop out of the classroom and follow Professor Lupin to the staffroom. It’s an odd feeling, walking into the staffroom and knowing this is where the teachers spend private time together. It looks a bit boring, to be honest; it’s long and low, with a whole lot of furniture of conflicting color schemes, styles, and periods of origin.

Draco is saying something rather funny about how the furniture is almost as patchwork as Lupin’s robes when Tracey’s eyes catch on a particularly interesting wardrobe. It’s got a mirrored door, and the sides are bowed outward slightly. Under Tracey’s gaze, it wobbles slightly. 

Professor Lupin appears to notice her look, and he smiles kindly at her. “I see one student has already noticed the object of our lesson,” he says. “A boggart has recently moved into the staff room’s wardrobe, and the Headmaster was kind enough to allow me to appropriate it for my third years.” 

Professor Lupin is speaking in the same gentle, even way as always, but the class is looking significantly more tense. Draco is paler than Tracey has ever seen him, Theo’s eyes are glassy and he’s swaying slightly, Daphne is comforting a trembling Lily, and even Blaise looks a bit anxious. 

Tracey can hardly make out what Professor Lupin says about how to deal with a boggart. After the part about worst fears and it always being best to have company, Tracey becomes far more occupied in trying to calm the storm raging through her mindscape. Although Professor Lupin may think that company is necessary to battle boggarts, Tracey suspects that her greatest fear is being rejected, and a very good way for a boggart to show that fear would be to simply step out of the wardrobe and tell the class, “Tracey Davis is a muggleborn.” 

Lupin is talking about how they need to make their greatest fears funny, but Tracey can’t think of any way to make hers anything less than awful and terrifying. If she faces this boggart, it won’t just show her fear, it’ll very likely make it come true. There’s no way she can do this— but how can she get out of it?

A glance around reveals that none of her classmates look any happier about this than she does. Draco is talking lowly but very much audibly about how much he hates this assignment and this teacher, Honoria Seventhson looks greenish and ill, and Daphne is speaking urgently to Lily, an anxious look on her face. 

After a moment, Daphne rises, her face set in a smooth mask. She gracefully weaves her way through the tangle of mismatched furniture until she reaches Lupin. 

“Professor Lupin,” she speaks, “I was wondering if participation in the practical side of this lesson is required.” 

Lupin smiles that same gentle smile. “I’m afraid it is. If you’re scared, just remember that all of your friends are here to support you.” He raises his voice slightly. “I know that each and every one of you has the power to overcome your fears.” 

Everyone is expected to participate, Tracey translates grimly. Daphne nods politely and begins picking her way back to the group. Now that she’s no longer facing Lupin, her cool, composed look has turned frigid enough to freeze boiling water.

“Everyone ready?” Lupin asks cheerily. There’s silence, which Lupin seems to take as agreement. “Do I have any volunteers?” 

Nobody shifts at all. Pansy Parkinson leans in close to Honoria Seventhson and whispers, “Are practical lessons allowed to be mandatory?”

“They’re not,” Honoria whispers back. “There’s provision for those who are allergic to specific potions ingredients, or things like that. I remember reading up on it in the Hogwarts Professorial Code of Conduct.” 

“In that case, let’s all arrange ourselves in an orderly, single file line,” Lupin tells the class. Nobody moves; Daphne slowly raises her hand. 

“Yes, Miss Greengrass,” Professor Lupin says. He’s still speaking in the same good-natured tone, but there’s a bit more tension in his face. 

“According to the Professorial Code of Conduct, practical lessons can’t be mandatory,” she tells him. 

“I’m afraid that only applies to specific students with medical reasons for not participating,” Professor Lupin replies, play-acting at regretfulness quite admirably. “Now, if everyone would please make a single file line before the boggart.” 

Nobody moves. Tracey glances at Lily; she’s so anxious that she actually looks rather pale and feverish.

Wait. Suddenly, Tracey is struck by inspiration. She nudges Daphne very slightly and coughs pointedly into her elbow. Daphne’s eyebrows raise, and she seems to get Tracey’s idea. 

“Actually,” Daphne speaks up, “I’m feeling rather ill, myself.” 

“As am I,” Lily says quietly. 

The rest of the class joins in, chorusing that they’re all feeling poorly. There’s a spattering of coughs and sniffles, and Honoria even produces a handkerchief, which she loudly blows her nose into. 

Professor Lupin raises an eyebrow; he looks vaguely amused, but unimpressed. “I think not,” he says. He’s got a slight smile clinging to his lips, a smile that says he thinks they’re rather silly, and this isn’t nearly so hard as they think it is.

“I think I’m going to vomit,” Lily says desperately. 

Professor Lupin actually chuckles now. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he says dismissively. 

Suddenly Lily folds at the waist and is puking all over the smooth, hardwood floors. Professor Lupin’s mouth falls open, and for a moment he just stares as Lily dry heaves in front of him, bile dripping down her tongue. 

He sighs and shakes his head slightly. “Class dismissed,” he says, flicking his wand to clean up the mess. The class turns and leaves, Daphne cleaning bile off of Lily’s chin as they go.


	14. Second week of classes 1993-early November 1993

Following the practical lesson with the boggart, someone (Tracey’s not sure who) tells Professor Snape what happened. According to the rumor mill, Professor Snape is livid, and the incident ignites what seems to be a full-on feud between Professor Snape and Professor Lupin, as well as between the greater Slytherin House and Professor Lupin. 

Most of Slytherin ceases to complete any of Lupin’s assignments. Professor Snape doesn’t really punish them, only smirks and, when required, assigns them “detentions” in which they’re allowed to sit quietly and do whatever they like as he grades papers at his desk. Other Slytherins spread rumors about Professor Lupin, and Draco has written a letter to his father about the entire thing. 

The rest of the school seems to love Lupin; even Miranda and Wayne quite like him. During one free period, Tracey grows so frustrated with Miranda’s gushing over a recent lesson on Red Caps that she says rather coolly, “What do you think I’ve got as a boggart, Miranda?” 

It takes a moment for it to sink in, but once she does, her mouth forms an O of recognition. “No wonder you don’t like him,” she says slowly. She pats Tracey’s hand. “I’m sorry, Tracey.” 

Aside from the feud with Lupin, Professor Snape’s got it out for Longbottom, as well. According to the rumor mill, Longbottom got Professor Snape as his boggart, and the way he made it funny was by dressing Professor Snape in his grandmother’s clothes. Professor Snape is making life more difficult for Longbottom every opportunity he gets, and it’s escalating to the point that Tracey thinks Longbottom’s potions are at least half made up of sweat. 

There’s another student-teacher feud raging in one of Tracey’s other classes. Granger is grumbling almost constantly now, and Professor Trelawney has retaliated by predicting a veritable stream of minor misfortunes that will occur against Granger from paper cuts and lost homework assignments to —her favorite— an endlessly foggy third eye.

Parvati and Lavender are growing more and more admiring of Professor Trelawney with every passing class, and they’re eager to defend her against Granger. Unluckily, they begin to defend the legitimacy of Divination by bringing up Tracey’s seeing a hippogriff and the boggart wardrobe in her tea leaves. Granger, in turn, rather sharply points out that the mermaid wearing a necklace and the old rose garden that Tracey had seen in her tea leaves haven’t had any such moment of triumph.

On the sixteenth of October, Lavender receives word that her rabbit had died. Despite the fact that Lavender is clearly distraught, Granger decides that this is the perfect time to restart the argument about whether or not Divination works. Lavender gets more and more upset, and Granger gets haughtier and haughtier, and then finally Granger gets so frustrated that she says, “If you really want me to believe Divination works, then have Davies divine the password to Gryffindor tower.” 

“She’ll do it, no problem,” Lavender replies at once, chin jutting out stubbornly. 

Tracey unhappily brews the tea. As she slowly sips it, she speaks to her magic, pleading that it can help her to succeed at this unlikely task— one which Granger has clearly chosen as one that she believes impossible. 

Tracey smooths her mindscape into clear waters and lets her vision go blurry and unfocused. At the same time, she follows her magic, letting it guide her.

“A witch,” she says. “Kind of chubby?” Tracey frowns. “She’s a portrait, and the painting she’s in has little rips.” 

“She probably heard that from someone else,” Granger tells Lavender impatiently. “And the Fat Lady’s portrait isn’t ripped. C’mon, what’s the password?” 

“It’s getting more ripped,” Tracey blurts out. “Huge strips, now. And the person in the painting is leaving.” 

Granger grabs Tracey’s teacup, looking disturbed. “I can’t see anything even remotely like that.” Tracey shrugs. She can’t either, when she looks at it like that.

“Whatever,” Granger says at last with a little huff. “She didn’t figure out the password, so it doesn’t count.” 

This year isn’t as stormy as the last. There aren’t huge gusts of wind that pull down loose branches or the rolling of thunder— it simply drizzles constantly and endlessly. It’s as if there’s an unchanging backdrop of water; the noise of the rain fades into the background, becoming as commonplace and unremarkable as the sun rising. Instead of bursting with color, the grounds are all a sort of dull brownish, and despite it only being late October, the leaves have already fallen away. Even the plants in the greenhouse seem stunted and unable to grow properly. Professor Sprout says it’s because of the dementors patrolling the grounds.

Lily only cautiously mentions Samhain; Tracey thinks that she doesn’t dare to hope too much, for fear of being disappointed. Mostly the Slytherins talk about Hogsmeade. Halloween weekend, they’ll be allowed into the village for the very first time, and everyone’s excited about it. Theo is interested in checking out the selection at Tomes and Scrolls, Pansy says she’s in desperate need of a visit to Gladrags Wizardwear, and Draco wants to visit the Shrieking Shack. 

Hogsmeade village is almost as wonderful as the rumors stated. There are clusters of quaint-looking little cottages, and inbetween them here and there little shops. At first Tracey wanders with the others from shop to shop, simply taking in all the sights. Once they’ve gotten at least a glance at everything, they get to shopping. Tracey grabs a few books from Tomes and Scrolls with Theo, and then buys some lovely looking new quills with Daphne and Lily, before at last ending up at the Three Broomsticks where she quaffs hot butterbeer while laughing with the others. 

They troop happily back to the castle to enjoy the feast, their pockets bulging with all the things they bought at Hogsmeade. All of them are so stuffed with Honeydukes sweets that they can hardly appreciate the feast itself, but they still enjoy the entertainment— particularly the formation gliding by the Hogwarts ghosts.

The meal finishes without Professor Quirrel bursting through the door, and they make it to the dungeons without walking past a petrified cat or bloody writing on the wall. Lily is starting to look cautiously hopeful, and by the time they climb up to their dorm room, she’s starting to smile. They pull on heavy wool cloaks and head down to the common room, where students are milling, speaking excitedly. 

They’re following the prefects through the halls when suddenly Professor Snape whirls around a corner, his face set in a scowl. He says something to the prefects, and they change course, following Professor Snape. 

They find themselves in the Great Hall, which is filled with all the other students. Tracey is surprised to see Lavender pushing through the crowd. 

“You were right!” Lavender says breathlessly. “The Fat Lady got attacked— huge strips ripped out, and she left— everything just like you predicted!” 

“Who did it?” Draco asks, stepping forward. 

Lavender leans forward, her eyes round as saucers. “ _Sirius Black_ ,” she whispers conspiratorily. “Or at least, that’s what I heard.” She grins. 

The Weasley prefect is shouting at all of them to go to bed, so Lavender slips away with one last delighted squeeze of Tracey’s hand. They all strip off their thick wool coats and settle into their sleeping bags as best they can. 

“Bloody Potter,” Lily murmurs sleepily. It’s the last thing Tracey hears before she falls asleep.

Over the next week, the school talks of little else but Sirius Black. Somehow, however, between all the talking about Sirius Black, a surprising number of people find time to talk about _Tracey_. Evidently Lavender and Parvati have been regaling everyone who stays still long enough about the tale of Tracey’s divination of the attack on the Fat Lady, which grows more lurid in every passing telling. 

That weekend, a Hufflepuff upper year comes up to Tracey in the library and bluntly asks if Tracey will divine her future. Tracey is so shocked that her mouth falls open slightly, but before she can respond Blaise, who’s been hanging around the library copying off of Theo’s History essay, asks coolly, “What’ll you give her for it?” 

Tracey turns toward Blaise, and he winks at her, a smile tugging at the side of his mouth that the Hufflepuff can’t see.

“I’ll give you five galleons,” The Hufflepuff says. “I just— I need to know the future.” She shuts her mouth again, biting her bottom lip.

Blaise nods at Tracey like he’s done her a favor. Tracey sighs. “Alright, then.” 

The Hufflepuff nods, pressing five galleons into Tracey’s palm. She sits down across from Tracey. “How’ll you do it?” 

How _will_ Tracey do it? It’s not like she’s got tea for the Ravenclaw to drink. She supposes she’ll just have to trust in her magic. She prays a quick little prayer to her magic in her head and then closes her eyes. The current of her magic is licking at her fingertips already, and she follows it easily. Unlike usual, it doesn’t lead her to her mindscape. 

Instead, she finds herself standing before a crumbling stone wall that reaches just high enough that she can’t quite see over it. It’s covered in climbing ivy and moss, and looks quite old. In one spot the ivy grows so dense that nothing of the wall can be seen. Tracey brushes aside the curtain of ivy with one hand, and sees a door, which is cracked slightly open. Judging by the greenery growing up around it, it’s stuck the way it is, so Tracey doesn’t try to open it further, just slips inside. 

Tracey finds herself in a tangled, half-wild garden. Rose bushes grow almost to the size of trees are here and there; and even the trees that really are normal trees are hung with the streamers of roseless climbing roses. Tracey slowly wanders through the garden. As she wanders, she sees that some of the trunks of the trees are rotting where vegetation has piled up against them, and in other places the rose bushes are covered in a sort of white mold. Tracey follows the current of her magic, until it, and she, come to a stop. 

She can feel the current rushing around her and all through the garden. Small buds begin to form and grow forth into full, bright roses. As the roses grow and the air fills with the smell of summer, another change takes place. Debris disappears from the grass, and the wild rose bushes shrink into distinct, neat shapes. As the roses begin to wilt once more and the leaves turn brilliant shades, the last of the mold and rot disappears. 

The current of Tracey’s magic nudges against her, and she turns her head. There in the grass is lying a familiar-looking woman, a smile of contentment on her face. Lying against her stomach is a pair of garden shears. Tracey kneels next to her and sees to her shock that it’s the very same Hufflepuff, only a bit older now. Without thinking, Tracey reaches out to shake her, and jolts awake. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” The Hufflepuff says. “You weren’t responding.” 

Tracey rubs at her eyes, which feel crusty. Her head is heavy and her ears are ringing dully. 

“Did you see anything?” The Hufflepuff asks cautiously.

“Summer,” Tracey says. Her mouth is so dry she can hardly talk; she licks her lips. “Trim and shape and remove the dead things, the rot and the mold will be healed by next summer.” She hardly knows what the words she say mean; they spill past her lips with hardly a thought.

The Hufflepuff nods quickly. “Thanks,” she says in an oddly choked voice, and then hastily presses another handful of coins into Tracey’s hand before hurrying out of the library. 

Tracey tucks her newly acquired coins away— seven galleons, nine sickles and three knuts in all, it turns out— and begins trying to work on her Alchemy homework. 

She’s startled out of her thoughts Blaise abruptly sits up from where he was half-dozing against a stack of books, and waves to a cluster of other Hufflepuff upper years who’ve been milling around the library looking confused. 

“Looking for the seer?” he calls cheerfully. “She’s right here.” 

“Ugh, shut up,” Theo groans, plopping his head down on a pile of parchment. “You’re in a library, for Merlin’s sake.” 

Blaise grins at Theo and claps a hand on Tracey’s shoulder. “Be a darling and spare me a small cut of the profits, why don’t you?” he says, and then saunters out of the library. 

Every time Tracey divines for someone else, the experience is a little different. For one of the upper years, she follows the current and finds herself crawling under what feels like a bed until one of her pawing hands closes around a round metal thing. For another, she becomes a bird hopping around on wooden ground. For yet a third, she daydreams she buries a tiny coffin in rich dark soil. 

Still, the upper years seem to find meaning in Tracey’s fumbling precognitions. The first gasps and says, “So that’s where my locket is!” Another whispers, “My animagus form will be a bird?” The third gasps, “Mooky!” and begins to cry softly.

Soon after that, Tracey is swamped. What seems like every single Hufflepuff in the first one’s year wants to get their fortune told, and a great deal in the years adjacent do as well. It takes Tracey a while to divine for all of the Hufflepuffs, and once she’s finally done, there’s a whole swarm of Ravenclaws as well, all looking bug-eyed and fascinated.

“Maybe some kind of familial trait?” One of them is suggesting. 

“I don’t think so, I heard she’s a Davies, and they don’t have any inclination towards being seers, judging by how Roger did in Divination…” 

“There has to be some trick, some forgotten practice that’s the key to reliable Divination. One that she’s rediscovered,” Another Ravenclaw is arguing. 

“Are any of you going to buy Divinations?” Tracey asks. No one seems to hear her, far too busy arguing how she does it. Tracey stands up, groaning as her sore muscles are forced to move. “I’m going to bed.” 

Tracey’s every spare moment seems to be filled with time spent divining. She divines weddings and funerals, lost homework and surprise apprenticeship offers, sunshine and rain. She divines for Slytherins and Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. Even during her Herbology free period she can’t quite catch a break; Miranda wants her future told, too. 

Tracey doesn’t like the attention, nor the pressure. She also doesn’t like asking her magic for so much, although it always seems happy to oblige. Still, the sheer number of galleons she’s getting motivates her, however reluctantly, to continue. Also, at this point she doesn’t think she could stop the rumors even if she tried, so she might as well profit off of them. 

Tracey is walking through the dungeons one evening when she quite literally bumps into someone. Broad hands fall on her shoulders, steadying her. Tracey shifts away quickly, not liking the way it makes her feel confined. 

“Thanks,” she says quickly, and turns away. 

“Wait,” comes a deep voice. “Are you Tracey Davis?” 

Hiding a sigh, Tracey turns back around. Before her is standing an upper year, Ravenclaw by the trimmings on his robes. He’s dark haired and dark eyed, and handsome, Tracey supposes, in a broad sort of way. 

“I’m Roger Davies,” he says. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehehe. you know what, I think I will hold off on posting the rest of the backlog just so you can relish in this cliffhanger >:)


	15. November 1993

Davies claps a hand around Tracey’s forearm and hauls her along. Tracey is too dazed to even think of resisting; all of her energy is going to desperately trying to calm her mindscape. 

Davies sweeps her into an empty classroom and closes the door, locking it with a wave of his wand. Then he turns toward Tracey, a threatening look on his face. 

“What’s your game?” He asks. 

“I d—don’t know what you mean,” Tracey stutters. Davies’ dark eyebrows raise, and he sneers at her. 

“You’re dirtying my family name,” he tells her. “And I want you to fix it.” 

“How am I di—dirtying your family name?” Tracey asks.

Davies slowly approaches, the sneer on his face growing more pronounced with every step. “You’re carrying a bastardized version of our name, claiming to be a Davies bastard, when no one in my family would _ever_ do such a thing.” 

“What do you mean?” Tracey asks. She’s genuinely shocked and confused. 

Davies glowers at her. “You claim that your surname is _Davis_ , a surname no magical family carries. A clear attempt to draw a connection to our family, despite being unable to claim the _actual_ Davies name.”

Tracey’s heart thuds in her chest as realization hits her. All this time, people have been assuming she’s a Davies despite her name being spelled differently because they assume she was illegitimate. She’s not exactly happy to learn that everyone apparently thinks she’s been born out of wedlock, but at least it explains why no one’s realized she’s actually a muggleborn. 

Despite Tracey’s stuppor, Davies has continued his ranting. “—asked my parents, a _very_ humiliating experience, by the way— and _no one_ in my family has _ever_ stepped out.” 

Tracey gathers herself and draws a knowing smirk to her face. “Or your parents just won’t admit it,” she suggests slyly. 

Davies stares at her, a look of rage on his face. “How _dare_ you,” he spits. Quick as a flash, he draws his wand. “Ferrum pugnus!” he cries. Suddenly what feels like an invisible, unbelievably hard fist slams into Tracey’s face. She falls to the ground. She can hardly even try to get her bearings before another punch is thundering into her ribs, knocking the wind out of her. 

Punches rain down on Tracey as Davies stands over her, directing the brutality with calm, gentle flicks of his wand. “Please,” Tracey groans out. “What— do you— want?” 

Davies ends the spell as he kneels next to her, peering into Tracey’s puffy and swollen face. “I want you to admit to the entire Slytherin common room that you’re lying.” 

Tracey’s heart stops. Compared to that, this beating is nothing. 

“What if I gave you money? Or divined for you?” she offers desperately. 

Davies frowns contemplatively. “All of the money you get from those cheap little divination tricks will buy you another two months living off of my good name. After that, you try to divine something for me. If it’s true, you get another two months. If not, you have to admit the truth to the Slytherin common room that night.” He smiles viciously. “Deal?” 

“Deal,” Tracey manages. 

Davies flicks his wand, and one last punch slams into Tracey’s stomach. As Tracey lays panting on the floor, he turns and leaves. 

Tracey lays there for a long time, just trying to breathe through the pain. Four months, she thinks blurrily. Probably more like two— she suspects that Davies won’t accept whatever she divines. Hell, he might not even give her two. 

Life passes more quickly when you’re living on borrowed time. Tracey works extra hard divining, hoping that if she earns enough money Davies will stick to his side of the bargain. At first it’s easy to earn lots of money— everyone seems to want to know their future, and she’s more popular than she’s ever been. So popular, in fact, that one boy asks her out on a date for the next Hogsmeade trip. 

As weather cools, however, what had once been an endless rush of people interested in her divinations slows to a mere trickle. Soon Tracey is divining for only a few people a week, then even more rarely than that. The endless drizzle of rain turns to icy snow, which quickly turns gathers in icy, greyish mush-piles. A strain of goblin flu rips through the castle. Soon several of the hospital beds are full, and there’s someone sniffling in every class. No one has the time nor energy to think of their futures, when they’re so busy managing the present. 

Tracey scours her mind for solutions, but she can’t think of any way out. Davies has all the power here, and she can’t think of a way to get a leg up. The most she can do is try to prepare for what’s inevitably coming— and even that is difficult. Tracey is used to protecting herself through blending in, and she isn’t entirely certain how to protect herself when blending is no longer an option. 

Tracey bases her preparations by imagining her life at Hogwarts without the help of her Slytherin allies. She lives in the Lavellan Suite through her networking with Daphne and Lily, so she’ll need a new place to stay. She maintains her Potions grade through working with Theo, so she’ll need a new partner and a new study buddy. Tracey also remembers the actions of schoolchildren prior to Hogwarts. Her books and shoes were often stolen, so she’ll need to somehow protect her trunk and book bag to prevent sabotage. 

The first matter is where she will stay. Some covert investigation finds that there are still plenty of unclaimed dorm rooms. The quality of these dorm rooms is certainly lower than the Lavellan Suite— they’re smaller, farther from the common room, and rather shabbier looking as well— but at least they’re available. 

Tracey is not sure how to replace Theo. The only allies outside of Slytherin who could possibly partner with her in Potions are Lavender and Parvati— and they would hardly be suitable. Plus, a partnership between a Gryffindor and a Slytherin is nigh unthinkable. More unthinkable than a muggleborn Slytherin Tracey cannot say, but definitely taboo. 

Nor is Tracey sure how to protect her things. At last she ends up asking Miranda, who has an eclectic set of knowledge that more likely than not has some sort of answer. 

They’re walking back to the castle when Tracey broaches the question. “Say I wanted to protect some things,” she says. “The contents of a trunk and a bookbag, for instance. How would I do it?” 

Wayne’s eyes narrow, but Miranda replies unhesitatingly. “Wards,” she says at once. “We’ve been talking about warding in Ancient Runes. Even learned to create some really basic ones, ourselves.” 

Tracey nods. “How easy are they to break?” She knows some of her classmates tested into Advanced Ancient Runes— and those are her fellow third years. 

“Easy enough if you know what you’re doing,” Miranda says. “But they buy a bit of time.” 

Tracey nods again, more slowly this time. Her heart is sinking low into her chest. 

“Is this just…” Wayne wets his lips, “...theoretical?” 

There’s a long moment of silence. They’ve somehow stopped walking without noticing. In this light, Wayne’s hair almost looks more brown than red— like it’s rust. 

“No,” Tracey admits at last.

The silence stretches, and then Wayne says at last, “After class today, bring the things you want warded to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. Miranda, come up with the strongest ward scheme you can.” Tracey nods, and a moment later, so does Miranda. 

Wayne turns and keeps walking. Miranda is biting at her twisted lips, obviously struggling not to burst out with questions. She knows both Tracey and Wayne too well to believe they would answer any, Tracey thinks wryly to herself. 

After the last class of the day has ended, Tracey shrinks her bookbag and trunk and tucks them away into her pockets. She slips away from the other Slytherins and finds her way to Moaning Myrtle’s old bathroom. Tracey’s only seen this place once, on a dare from Draco back in first year. The out of order sign is just the same as it was then, except for perhaps a few new pieces of graffiti carved into the old wood.

Tracey nudges the door open and steps inside. Tracey can tell the others are already here before she even really sees them. The first thing you see coming into Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom is the shattered mirror, which right now is a kaleidoscope of dark red hair and olive skin with dusky freckles. 

Tracey unshrinks her trunk and bookbag, and Miranda pulls out a stick of charcoal. In the dim light of the candle stubs, she begins tracing out runes in jet black, her face set in concentration. At last she leans back, her fingers stained with ashy gloom. “I’m finished,” she announces.

Wayne nods, stepping forward. He opens one fist, revealing a needle like a single silver thread of hair. Before the other two can react, he pricks the pad of his finger. The air fills with the smell of copper, and a single drop of blood drips from his finger, falling onto the runes. The runes glow a color like coals being stirred awake, and then fade away into nothing. 

“How— what—” Miranda gapes. 

Wayne slips the needle away like it was never there. “Your things will be secure now,” he tells Tracey, and then pushes open the bathroom door and hurries out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it took me a hot minute to get back to this


	16. December 1993

Even if her things are now safe, Tracey is still rather in need of allies. So she resolves to build a closer relationship with Lavender and Parvati, as well make her Hogsmeade date an ally. So when Lavender decides that Tracey absolutely _needs_ a makeover before her Hogsmeade date, Tracey agrees to it. 

Lavender’s eyes light up, and she grabs onto Tracey’s hand. “Really?” When Tracey cautiously nods, Lavender squeals in delight. “Ooo, Parvati and I will have so much to do!” Lavender prattles, clapping her hands. “You can borrow my robes from last Christmas, but you’ll definitely need your own jewelry and beauty products.” 

Tracey ends up spending her free period with Lavender and Parvati, pouring over Witch Weekly’s extensive catalogue. Apparently, Lucinda’s Lemon-and-Lavender Lotion will clear her skin of imperfections and give her luck in love. Madam Mer’s Sea-Berry Potion is advertised to coax any hair, no matter how difficult, into soft waves, which in turn Medea’s Myrtle-and-Clove Spray is certain to leave smelling heavenly.

By the time the free period is over, Tracey has agreed to order what feels like an apothecary's worth of beauty products. Additionally she has agreed to order a surprisingly inexpensive pearl robe guard to hold her robes together in style, as well as a new hat with a fashionably bent tip and a brim bursting with viola flowers. 

The day of the Hogsmeade trip, Tracey wakes up earlier than usual to get ready. She spreads Lucinda’s Lemon-and-Lavender Lotion on her face, then carefully powders it over using a rabbit's foot that’s advertised to make all her beauty products more potent. Tracey combs Madam Mer’s Sea-Berry Potion through her hair, and watches in fascination as her nearly straight hair gains true waves. Then she puts on her new hat- which of course covers all of her efforts up. 

Tracey waits impatiently in the queue with the other Slytherin girls, none of whom notice what seems to Tracey to be her wild transformation. Mr. Filch skims quickly over her permission slip, and they’re off, breathing in the crisp, cold air and crunching through the clean snow out past the gate. 

Tracey is supposed to meet her date at Madam Puddifoot’s, so as they enter the outskirts of Hogsmeade, she breaks off from the others. Tracey has never been to Madam Puddifoot’s, so it takes her a bit of wandering around the village to at last find the narrow path between two houses that leads to the little tea shop. She hurries in, an apology for her date already on her tongue, when she looks around and sees that he’s nowhere to be found. 

Suddenly, with crushing certainty, Tracey knows that he has forgotten all about their arrangement. Not out of malice, but simply because Tracey has made herself a rather forgettable girl. 

If only, Tracey thinks bitterly, Roger Davies would forget her just as quickly.

Hogsmeade has lost its appeal, and Tracey finds herself wandering back down the snow-covered path to Hogwarts, past Mr. Filch who is napping in a muggle folding chair, and back into the castle. Without any recollection of how she got there, she finds herself back in the common room, tucked away in her favorite alcove against the clear glass wall, staring thoughtlessly into the deep green void. 

For a long time she vacantly watches the lapping water, the occasional fish swimming past, the long, swaying dark green— hair? Tracey blinks. Sure enough, dark green hair sways in front of greyish skin. She slowly lifts her gaze, up past the ropes of polished pebbles, past the furrows of gills like some odd fungal grown, up to stare straight into the yellow-irised eyes of a mermaid. 

For a long moment the two simply stare at each other, neither moving nor speaking. Then the mermaid looks down slightly, and Tracey follows her gaze to realize that the mermaid is staring in envy and fascination at Tracey’s gaudy robes guard. Slowly Tracey unclips it and presses it against the cool glass. Before her unfocused eyes, she feels the glass wall bend like the membrane of a bubble, and with a soft pop, the piece of jewelry is on the other side. 

The mermaid grins, displaying a graveyard’s worth of tombstone teeth. She seems to say something, but Tracey can’t tell what, and then she somehow attaches the robe guard to one of her pebble-ropes, before centering it so the robe guard hangs in a place of honor at the center of her chest. She says something else, before abruptly turning upside down in the water and swimming away. 

Smiling slightly to herself, Tracey goes back to staring vacantly into the water. That is until she hears an insistent rapping on the glass. The mermaid is back, carrying the moss-covered remains of one of the boats used to ferry first years across the Great Lake. Tracey stares in shock at the boat, but before she can begin to compose herself the mermaid has dropped the boat in dissatisfaction and swam away once more. 

The mermaid returns a few minutes later holding a fishing pole. A single glance at Tracey’s expression, and she shakes her head and leaves once more. She returns with what looks like an ancient, half-disintegrated broomstick, then a rotted beach umbrella, then what looks like an odd, dark slab. Tracey peers closer, and realizes to her astonishment it’s a book— water-sodden and dilapidated, but a book nonetheless. 

The mermaid must see something in Tracey’s expression she likes, because she grins and pushes the book through the glass to Tracey before swimming away. Tracey grunts gracelessly as the weight of the huge, water-sodden book hits her. Grotty lake water drips off of it, staining her robes and dirtying her hands. 

Still, there’s something about the book that piques Tracey’s interest. She shakes the book, letting the excess water drip off of it, before patting at the cover with her cloak. The book is so saturated with water that no matter how much water she pats away, there seems to be an endless amount more ready to seep out. 

Once her cloak is too wet to be any more use, Tracey gets up and carries the book with her into the common room proper. With everyone off at Hogsmeade, the room is completely empty. She sets the book down on one of the tables before skimming through the bookshelves until she finds a book of household charms. She skims through this as well until at last stumbling upon a drying charm. 

“Aer calidus!” Tracey incantes. Hot air rushes from the tip of her wand, but it doesn’t seem to affect the book at all. Tracey bites her lip in thought, then stands the book upright. She doesn’t want to try to separate the pages yet, but she does carefully pry the cover away from the mass of pages. She casts several more drying spells in quick succession. By the time she realizes that her drying spells are causing the pages to clump together, it’s too late and most of the pages are glued tightly together in just a few clumps.

Tracey grabs a towel from her dorm’s bathroom and goes to the secret room the Bloody Baron showed her. She folds up the towel and stands the book up on the towel, then leaves it there to dry. 

By this point, the powder on Tracey’s cheeks have been replaced with muddy smears of lake water. The robe guard is gone from her robes, her hair is a mess, and she smells more like mud and brine then lemon and lavender. Still, she feels far more like herself. 

The book dries slowly, but steadily. Tracey regularly replaces the towel, and once the book is only damp instead of water-sodden, sticks parchment inbetween the pages to wick out the water. Once most of the water is gone, she fans the pages out and uses a mixture of simple air drying and hot air charms to dry it off. Within a week, the book has finally dried completely and she gets a chance to see what it’s about. 

Even the pages not stuck together are wrinkled and misshapen, and in many places the ink has begun to run. Still, Tracey curls up in the familiar green brocade armchair and starts to read.

> —held in high regard, as this was the day of light magic’s most inordinate strength. According to tradition, it was on this day that neophytes declared themselves to the light. Acolytes of light magic also celebrated Beltane and Lammas, although youths and other neophytes were solely permitted to join the Beltane circle.

The next couple of paragraphs detail how this “Beltane” was celebrated; to Tracey, it sounds about like May Day back in England. Tracey flips to the next clump of pages and continues reading.

> —dark magic imposes few, if any, moral curtailments on its practicians; dark wizards must govern their own morality. If there is perhaps a transgression dark magic will castigate, it is failing to safeguard the posterity of the dark unto the later generations— and, of course, deficient sacrifices. 
> 
> Sacrifices may be physical, for instance the offering of a songbird, or emotional, such as the undertaking of a perturbing task in the service of the dark. The most powerful of sacrifices are those that spill magical blood. It is in part due to this that dark partisans consider those with magic to be exalted above all others.

The rest of the page is illegible. Tracey stares at it without seeing, her mind lingering on Wayne, thinking of the thin needle, the single drop of blood, the smell of copper.

There’s no way. Wayne spends his free periods gently repotting seedlings, his honest hands carefully cupped around their root balls. He listens silently and respectfully to Professor Sprout, he makes the most delicious fudge, he condemns dark magic with a sort of stark, black-and-white morality. He’s the salt of the earth, loyal, _Hufflepuff_ sort of person who would never use dark magic. Can Tracey really imagine kind, steadfast Wayne with his broad face and Weasley-esque red hair as a dark wizard? 

Except she has seen him as a dark wizard. Shadows cast across his face, his eyes narrowed with determination, the flash of the needle in his hand. And hadn’t she noticed that his hair wasn’t the same shade as the Weasleys’, but closer to rust— or perhaps dried blood. That Wayne, eyes the color of coffee and face set in determination? Tracey could see that Wayne as a dark wizard. 

Hadn’t Wayne promised to never tell that Miranda had stolen the unicorn horn? Part of Hufflepuff House is loyalty, and Wayne had certainly been loyal to his promise— had never breathed a word. And hadn’t Wayne promised to help Tracey with anything— _anything,_ he had said in a voice pitched deeper than usual, his hand on her shoulder surprisingly firm. 

Yes, Tracey thinks. Wayne could be a dark wizard. 

After a long moment, Tracey flips to the next clump.

> —passed-over and misconceived, when recalled at all. Many are befuddled by the mere abstraction. Is grey magic an amalgamation of light magic and dark magic? Is it neither? Or mayhap grey magic is both and neither concomitantly… I dare to think that this is precisely the sort of contradiction grey devotees so dearly enjoy. 
> 
> My inquiries have been extensive, but the depth of my understanding is dishearteningly shallow. What little I have gleaned has been learned without the aid of any grey families, who guard their craft as jealously as a nesting dragon guards her eggs.
> 
> Through my inquiries I have discovered that grey disciples have been known to join light and dark circles for the respective Beltane and Samhain liturgies. Although I cannot be certain, I suspect grey devotees may celebrate Mabon and Ostara as their intrinsic hours of power. Similarly, I theorize that gray practicians’ power is at its height during dayspring and eventide. I would imagine grey circles meet, if meet they do, during the first and third quarters of the moon. 
> 
> Grey families are generally dispassionate in matters of partisan politics. Unlike light-aligned politicians, who push for increased rights for creatures and creatureborn, and dark-aligned politicians, who believe a dark lord is necessary to rule over the many selfish factions of politics, grey families care little for politics at all.
> 
> In my analysis, I have additionally noted that grey families are often skilled in matters of glamourey, clairvoyance, and transmogrification, whether it be the alchemical, apothecaric, or usual transfiguratory varieties. Most children of grey families are Sorted into Slytherin or Ravenclaw.

“Huh,” Tracey says softly. Wayne as a dark wizard, and herself as a grey witch? Perhaps. 


	17. 20 December 1993- end of February, 1994

Tracey sits cross-legged in her garden, her body loose and relaxed. The damp and cold of the earth has sunk into her bones so deeply that she no longer feels it against her at all and around her, the pale pre-dawn light creates stark shapes in the garden. Next to her, the shadows of the naked rose bushes stretch over her possessively, scraggly branches bent like reaching fingers. Tonight it will be the first quarter of the moon. 

Incrementally, the sky around her lightens. A hint of pink appears in the gray clouds around her, at first so faint that Tracey half-believes she is imagining it. As the color spreads, staining the undersides of the clouds pink-gold, Tracey begins. 

“I appreciate you, magic,” Tracey says. The words are quiet in the cool morning air. “I know that you dwell within me, I’ve seen proof of it time and time again. Speak to me, please. Give me aid and guidance.”

The garden is silent around her; not even the birds chirp. The only movement is the slight swaying of the rose bushes in a a frigid winter breeze. 

Tracey closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She can smell the cold in the air, can feel the tips of her fingers and toes tingling with it. Tracey smooths away the thought of how cold her feet are, and tries to exist in stillness, her mind attuned towards her magic. 

A breeze tugs at her hair, swirls around her ears. The water laps at her cautiously, and she wades in. Around her the breeze picks up, and an undertow tugs at her. Her ears pop as she allows the maelstrom to pull her under.

A unicorn dies and is devoured, flesh consumed by hungry maws and bleached white bones declining to rich loam. Green new life creeps forth from dark soil, and the pale, celestial face of a wobbling unicorn foal bends forward and devours the new growth. 

The moon waxes to wane again, fire consumes the undergrowth so that the next age of kindling may rise, scales slip into open mouth as the serpent eats itself. 

The osborous turns its inhuman eyes towards Tracey. Its gaze is imperturbable and aloof, yet at the same time, as familiar to Tracey as the feel of her wand in her hand. 

Wait, my kindred, comes a wordless voice. Wait and see. 

Tracey opens her eyes. A wind still plays with her hair. My kith and kin asks that you give the book to Miranda Brocklehurst, a last whisper advises her. 

Tracey stays sitting in the garden for a long time. Finally she gets up and goes inside, where her mother makes her a hot breakfast with a generous mug of tea. Her mother doesn’t ask what she was doing; over the years she’s grown used to Tracey’s incongruities. 

After breakfast Tracey wraps the book in muggle wrapping paper and sends it to Miranda. She’s already sent her original presents to Miranda and Wayne, as well as to Lavender, Parvati, and all of her Slytherin year-mates. There’s nothing much to do at home now except wait. 

Christmas morning dawns bright and cold. In addition to her usual presents, she receives a selection of new beauty products from Lavender and Parvati– as well as an additional letter from Miranda.

> Tracey–
> 
> Thank you so much for the book! It’s so fascinating, I’ve never read anything like it. In all honesty I have to wonder where you got it. The water damage only makes me more curious. 
> 
> I paged through the catalogues of Flourish and Blotts as well as Tomes and Scrolls, but the books on branches of magic seem to be far more about the difference between, for instance, transfiguration and charms, than between light magic and dark magic. I think that the distinctions between classes of magic and how dark/light/grey it is are probably totally different– that there can be dark, light, and grey transfiguration spells, for example. I could be wrong though– I wish so much I had some more proper reading to explain it all! 
> 
> I did manage to find one book called Various Calender Systems of the Magical World that mentions the festivals talked about in the book. Apparently it’s part of a calender system called the Wheel of the Year! 
> 
> Apparently the idea of the Wheel of the Year is that there are eight cyclical days spread out evenly across the seasons. First the winter and summer solstices, Yule and Litha, and then the autumn and spring equinoxes, Mabon and Ostara. Then there are four more days, between the others. There’s Samhain between Mabon and Yule, Imbolc between between Yule and Ostara, Beltane between Ostara and Litha, and Lammas between Litha and Mabon. 
> 
> [under here she has drawn a little doodle depicting the Wheel of the Year]
> 
> They even have a calender calculating when all the dates would be for the various cyclical days. Apparently I just missed Yule, but Imbolc’s on Friday, February 4th, which will give me plenty of time to prepare. Do you know any dark wizards/witches? No offense, but Wayne is probably right that there are more dark wizards and witches in Slytherin. 
> 
> Speaking of Wayne– holy shite! I had no idea he was a dark wizard! He’s far more interesting than I thought he was, and I had already realized he was pretty interesting. 
> 
> Write back soon!  
> Miranda
>
>> Tracey bites the inside of her cheek, frustrated by Miranda’s recklessness and lack of subtlety. She pulls out a piece of parchment and writes back.
>>
>>> Miranda–
>>> 
>>> I read in the book that for light magic, children (I’m pretty sure that means you!) could only participate in Beltane. I bet it’s the same for dark magic, which I believe means you would only be able to participate in Samhain. 
>>> 
>>> Plus, what’s with all this sudden desire to practice dark magic? I thought you were a big Dumbledore fan? You know he wouldn’t approve of this sort of thing in the least. 
>> 
>> Tracey sighs. Even as she writes that last bit, she knows that Miranda wouldn’t care. Miranda likes Dumbledore because he wears strange, brightly colored robes, and says funny things, and presumably knows a great many interesting things. Miranda’s mind is ravenous and like a hunger-hollowed stray– her loyalty belongs to whoever feeds her. She scratches the last paragraph out. 
>> 
>> < blockquote>Do you even know what happens on Samhain? What kind of sacrifice would you need in order to participate? Who would you participate with? Would doing so give you any sort of obligation to the dark? You can’t just jump in without knowing what you’re doing!
>> 
>> I think you’re right that there are more dark wizards and witches in Slytherin. For the last couple of years Slytherin’s been trying to hold a Samhain celebration, but it always ends up being cancelled because of something Potter did. I don’t think you should try to join it, though. The Slytherins don’t like muggleborns and they probably wouldn’t accept you just bursting in out of nowhere.
> 
> Here Tracey pauses for a long moment, her quill pen dripping ink onto the thick parchment. She has no idea what to say with regards to Wayne. 
> 
> Finally Tracey shrugs and just finishes off the letter without mentioning Wayne at all.
>
>> Be careful!  
> Tracey
> 
> Later that day, Tracey receives a short note back from Miranda saying she’ll think about what Tracey said, and definitely wait until Samhain, and not much else. Tracey decides it’s probably the best she’ll get from Miranda. She can only hope that Miranda forgets about the entire thing, as she often does with many of her spontaneous ideas. 
> 
> However, once winter break ends, practically the first thing Miranda says upon seeing her is a thank-you for the book, along with telling her she’s reread everything in it she could about four times. Tracey smiles tightly and flicks her eyes pointedly at Wayne, who’s talking to Professor Sprout only about a meter away, but Miranda leans in and whispers, “He can’t be too irritated with me for it, since _he_ used Dark magic to protect your things.”
> 
> “Don’t say it out in the open like that,” Tracey whispers back. 
> 
> “I’m going to ask him about it,” Miranda whispers resolutely, and Tracey’s protests only make her grin wider. 
> 
> On the walk back, Miranda does ask him. “I was reading this book,” she begins eagerly, “and apparently blood is often used in Dark magic.” 
> 
> Wayne looks back at them. His face crumples. “Please don’t,” he asks lowly. “Please– if you care about me even a little bit, don’t ask me about that.” 
> 
> Miranda bites her lip, hard. “...Alright,” she says at last. The silence sits on them, heavy as someone’s gaze on their shoulders.
> 
> It’s January now– two months after Davies’ threats. The first couple of days of school, Tracey walks everywhere with her shoulders tensed as if for a blow, her hand clutched tightly around her wand. Every day that Davies doesn’t seek her out, she slowly, incrementally relaxes. Maybe Davies has forgotten her after all? 
> 
> The cold weather continues. Although new snow doesn’t fall, the air is still frigid and biting, and it feels almost as though the castle is caught in a snow globe, trapped in eternal winter. They begin studying palmistry in Divination, and Sirius Black breaks into the Gryffindor common room, but otherwise the days are dull and listless, blending into each other seamlessly. Tracey hopes the dull days and sense of time frozen in place will lull Davies into forgetting about her entirely. 
> 
> Her weak hopes are dashed when he corners her in the dungeons one damp afternoon in February. Deja vu fills her as he claps his broad hands on her shoulders once more, and shoves her roughly into a nearby classroom. 
> 
> “I almost forgot all about you,” he tells her, “But my parents don’t forget insults to our good name.” He doesn’t seem as angry as before– more tired and irritated, like his parents are making him do a chore he doesn’t like. Taking out the trash, Tracey thinks with a bitter twist of her lips. 
> 
> “I’ve given you two months,” He says. “More than that, even, although you’ve barely given me pocket money. I’ve been generous enough, I’ve fulfilled my side of things. It’s high time you pay your due and admit to the Slytherin common room that you’re lying.” 
> 
> “I thought you said if I divined something true, you would give me another two months,” Tracey stutters out. 
> 
> Davies pauses. His eyes gleam with interest. “So I did. Let’s see what you can come up with then.” His lips twist in a grin that clearly tells her he thinks she’ll fail.
> 
> Tracey takes a slow breath, smooths out the wrinkled waters of her mindscape. Slowly, cautiously, she reaches out, following the current of her magic. She brushes up against something smooth and warm, and opens her eyes. 
> 
> In front of her is a a smooth, gently curving wall of pale blue, speckled with brown like freckles. Tracey touches it gently, and feels the heat pressing out of it. Davies’ mind is protected by a shell, like an unhatched bird. 
> 
> The shell is hard, but brittle, and it’s easy for Tracey to freeze a bit of her mindscape into ice and make a crack in Davies’ shell. Water can pass through any entrance, no matter how small, so Tracey slips in through the miniscule crack and into Davies’ own mind.
> 
> Like a bird’s magnetic call north during migration season, Tracey’s magic leads her to a particular memory, a round yellow thing floating like a yolk in the clear stickiness of Davies’ thoughts. 
> 
> Tracey touches it gently, not breaking it but feeling the way it moves against her fingers. The bitter taste of shame under his tongue, but at the same time metallic resolve, the knowledge that he must do this. The triumph of his own cleverness. 
> 
> Tracey searches a little bit deeper. The precious packet of Demiguise hair sent by owl mail from his father. The secret brewing station, the packet of notes that he really didn’t have time to study between all of his far more interesting experiments. A prick of blood into the potion to attune to his magical signature directly. 
> 
> Carefully dipping the packet of notes in, then the series of careful tests to be sure nobody else could see it. Carrying it into the exam hall, palms sweating with nerves. Subtly flicking through it to find the information he needs to answer the questions. 
> 
> Tracey draws back, blood pounding with the sweet rush of victory. 
> 
> “You cheated on the third year end-of-year exams,” Tracey says, the words flowing off her tongue with the sweet ring of truth.
> 
> Davies draws back, eyes glittering darkly. “W–what are you talking about,” he stutters, but he’s a terrible liar.
> 
> “Demiguise hair,” Tracey reminds him. “Your packet of notes?” 
> 
> Davies’ hands are shaking. “What do you want?” 
> 
> “For now?” Tracey asks smoothly. “Just that you keep this whole thing a secret. Let them all keep on thinking I’m a bastard daughter of the Davies family. I’ll let you know if there’s anything else I need.” 
> 
> Davies nods quickly. 
> 
> A smile spreads across Tracey’s face. “It’s been excellent doing business with you,” she says, and slips away, a little spring in her step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of my backlog of finished chapters, just to let you guys know.


End file.
